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THE  ADVENTURES  OF 
AN  AMERICAN  IN 
THE  BRITISH  ARMY 


By 


JAMES 


tUHlillh  •Mtlilid  I 


•iilH\<U 


Mi 


lliullli    fif 


ilii 


J 


Kitchener's  Mob 


JAMES   NORMAN    HALL 


Kitchener's  Mob 

The  Adventures  of  an  American 
in  the  British  Army 

By 
James  Norman  Hall 


Boston  and  New  York 
Houghton  Mifflin  Company 

1916 


COPYRIGHT,   1916,  BY  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,    1916,   BY  JAMES  NORMAN  HALL 


ALL   RISHTS   RESERVED 


Published  May  iQib 


TO 

TOMMY 

OF  THE  GREAT  WAR 

WHO  IS  ADDING  IMMORTAL  LUSTER 

TO  THE  NAME  OF 

ATKINS 


Note 

This  brief  narrative  is  by  no  means  a  com- 
plete record  of  life  in  a  battalion  of  one  of  Lord 
Kitchener's  first  armies.  It  is,  rather,  a  story 
in  outline,  a  mere  suggestion  of  that  life  as  it  is 
lived  in  the  British  lines  along  the  western 
front.  If  those  who  read  gain  thereby  a  more 
intimate  view  of  trench  warfare,  and  of  the 
men  who  are  so  gallantly  and  cheerfully  laying 
down  their  lives  for  England,  the  purpose  of 
the  writer  will  have  been  accomplished. 

The  diagram  which  appears  on  the  front  and 
rear  covers  of  the  book  is  a  partially  conven- 
tionalized design  illustrating  some  features  of 
trench  construction  mentioned  in  Chapter  VI. 
For  obvious  reasons  it  is  not  drawn  to  scale, 
and  although  it  is  a  truthful  representation  of 
a  typical  segment  of  the  British  line,  it  is  not 
an  exact  sketch  of  any  existing  sector. 

^pril,  1916. 


Contents 


I.  Joining  Up        .        .        .        .        ,    ~   ,   '    ,      I 
II.  Rookies 9 

III.  The  Mob  in  Training 17 

IV.  Ordered  Abroad 39 

V.  The  Parapet-etic  School        .        .        .        -    5S 

VI.  Private  Holloway,  Professor  of  Hygiene      69 

VII.  Midsummer  Calm 92 

VIII.  Under  Cover 108 

IX.  Billets 129 

X.  New  Lodgings 144 

XI.  "Sitting  Tight" 177 


Kitchener's  Mob 

CHAPTER  I 

JOINING  UP 

"Kitchener's  Mob"  they  were  called  in 
the  early  days  of  August,  1914,  when  London 
hoardings  were  clamorous  with  the  first  calls 
for  volunteers.  The  seasoned  regulars  of  the 
first  British  expeditionary  force  said  it  patron- 
izingly, the  great  British  public  hopefully,  the 
world  at  large  doubtfully.  "Kitchener's  Mob," 
when  there  was  but  a  scant  sixty  thousand 
under  arms  with  millions  yet  to  come.  "Kitch- 
ener's Mob"  it  remains  to-day,  fighting  in 
hundreds  of  thousands  in  France,  Belgium, 
Africa,  the  Balkans.  And  to-morrow,  when  the 
war  is  ended,  who  will  come  marching  home 
again,  old  campaigners,  war-worn  remnants  of 
once  mighty  armies?    "Kitchener's  Mob." 

It  is  not  a  pleasing  name  for  the  greatest  vol- 
unteer army  in  the  history  of  the  world;  for 
more  than  three  millions  of  toughened,  disci- 

I 


Kitchener's  Mob 

plined  fighting  men,  united  under  one  flag,  all 
parts  of  one  magnificent  military  organization. 
And  yet  Kitchener's  own  Tommies  are  respon- 
sible for  it,  the  rank  and  file,  with  their  inherent 
love  of  ridicule  even  at  their  own  expense,  and 
their  intense  dislike  of  "  swank."  They  fastened 
the  name  upon  themselves,  lest  the  world  at 
large  should  think  they  regarded  themselves  too 
highly.  There  it  hangs.  There  it  will  hang  for 
all  time. 

It  was  on  the  i8th  of  August,  1914,  that  the 
mob  spirit  gained  its  mastery  over  me.  After 
three  weeks  of  solitary  tramping  in  the  moun- 
tains of  North  Wales,  I  walked  suddenly  into 
news  of  the  great  war,  and  went  at  once  to  Lon- 
don, with  a  longing  for  home  which  seemed 
strong  enough  to  carry  me  through  the  week  of 
idleness  until  my  boat  should  sail.  But,  in  a 
spirit  of  adventure,  I  suppose,  I  tempted  myself 
with  the  possibility  of  assuming  the  increasingly 
popular  alias,  Atkins.  On  two  successive  morn- 
ings I  joined  the  long  line  of  prospective  recruits 
before  the  offices  at  Great  Scotland  Yard,  with- 
drawing each  time,  after  moving  a  convenient 
distance  toward  the  desk  of  the  recruiting  ser- 

2 


Joining  Up 

geant.  Disregarding  the  proven  fatality  of 
third  times,  I  joined  it  on  another  morning, 
dangerously  near  to  the  head  of  the  procession. 

"Now,  then,  you!  Step  along!" 

There  is  something  compelling  about  a  mili- 
tary command,  given  by  a  military  officer  ac- 
customed to  being  obeyed.  While  the  doctors 
were  thumping  me,  measuring  me,  and  making 
an  inventory  of  "physical  peculiarities,  if  any," 
I  tried  to  analyze  my  unhesitating,  almost  in- 
stinctive reaction  to  that  stern,  confident  "Step 
along!"  Was  it  an  act  of  weakness,  a  want  of 
character,  evidenced  by  my  inability  to  say  no? 
Or  was  it  the  blood  of  military  forebears  assert- 
ing itself  after  many  years  of  inanition?  The 
latter  conclusion  being  the  more  pleasing,  I  de- 
cided that  I  was  the  grandson  of  my  Civil  War 
grandfather,  and  the  worthy  descendant  of 
stalwart  warriors  of  a  yet  earlier  period. 

I  was  frank  with  the  recruiting  officers.  I 
admitted,  rather  boasted,  of  my  American  citi- 
zenship, but  expressed  my  entire  willingness  to 
serve  in  the  British  army  in  case  this  should  not 
expatriate  me.  I  had,  in  fact,  delayed,  hoping 
that  an  American  legion  would  be  formed  in 

3 


Kitchener's  Mob 

London  as  had  been  done  in  Paris.  The  an- 
nouncement was  received  with  some  surprise. 
A  brief  conference  was  held,  during  which  there 
was  much  vigorous  shaking  of  heads.  While  I 
awaited  the  decision  I  thought  of  the  steamship 
ticket  in  my  pocket.  I  remembered  that  my 
boat  was  to  sail  on  Friday.  I  thought  of  my 
plans  for  the  future  and  anticipated  the  joy  of 
an  early  home-coming.  Set  against  this  was  the 
prospect  of  an  indefinite  period  of  soldiering 
among  strangers.  "Three  years  or  the  duration 
of  the  war"  were  the  terms  of  the  enlistment 
contract.  I  had  visions  of  bloody  engagements, 
of  feverish  nights  in  hospital,  of  endless  years 
in  a  home  for  disabled  soldiers.  The  conference 
was  over,  and  the  recruiting  officer  returned  to 
his  desk,  smiling  broadly. 

"We'll  take  you,  my  lad,  if  you  want  to  join. 
You'll  just  say  you  are  an  Englishman,  won't 
you,  as  a  matter  of  formality.?"  Here  was  an 
avenue  of  escape,  beckoning  me  like  an  alluring 
country  road  winding  over  the  hills  of  home.  I 
refused  it  with  the  same  instinctive  swiftness  of 
decision  that  had  brought  me  to  the  medical 
inspection  room.   And  a  few  moments  later,  I 

4 


Joining  Up 

took  "the  King's  shilling,"  and  promised,  upon 
my  oath  as  a  loyal  British  subject,  to  bear  true 
allegiance  to  the  Union  Jack. 

During  the  completion  of  other,  less  impor- 
tant formalities,  I  was  taken  in  charge  by  a  ser- 
geant who  might  have  stepped  out  of  any  of  the 
"Barrack-Room  Ballads."  He  was  true  to  type 
to  the  last  twist  in  the  s  of  Atkins.  He  told  me 
of  service  in  India,  Egypt,  South  Africa.  He 
showed  me  both  scars  and  medals  with  that  air 
of  ' '  Now-I-would-n' t-do-this-f or-any-one-bu t- 
you"  which  is  so  flattering  to  the  novice.  He 
gave  me  advice  as  to  my  best  method  of  pro- 
cedure when  I  should  go  to  Hounslow  Barracks 
to  join  my  unit. 

"'An  'ere!  Wotever  you  do  an'  wotever  you 
s'y,  don't  forget  to  myke  the  lads  think  you're 
an  out-an'-outer,  if  you  understand  my  mean- 
ing, —  a  Britisher,  you  know.  They'll  tyke  to 
you.  Strike  me  blind!  Be  free  an'  easy  with 
'em,  —  no  swank,  mind  you!  —  an'  they'll  be 
downright  pals  with  you.  You  're  different,  you 
know.  But  don't  put  on  no  airs.  Wot  I  mean  is, 
don't  let  'em  think  that  you  think  you're  differ- 
ent. See  wot  I  mean.?" 

S 


Kitchener's  Mob 

I  said  that  I  did. 

"An'  another  thing;  talk  like  'em." 

I  confessed  that  this  might  prove  to  be  rather 
a  large  contract. 

"'Ard?  S'y!  'Ere!  If  I  'ad  you  fer  a  d'y,  I'd 
'ave  you  talkin'  like  a  born  Lunnoner!  All  you 
got  to  do  is  forget  all  them  aitches.  An' 
you  don't  want  to  s'y  'can't,'  like  that.  S'y 
*cawrn't.'" 

I  said  it. 

"Now  s'y,  'Gor  blimy,  'Arry,  'ow  's  the 
missus  I 

I  did. 

"That's  right!  Oh,  you'll  soon  get  the  swing 
of  it." 

There  was  much  more  instruction  of  the  same 
nature.  By  the  time  I  was  ready  to  leave  the 
recruiting  offices  I  felt  that  I  had  made  great 
progress  in  the  vernacular.  I  said  good-bye  to 
the  sergeant  warmly.  As  I  was  about  to  leave 
he  made  the  most  peculiar  and  amusing  gesture 
of  a  man  drinking. 

"A  pint  o'  mild  an'  bitter,"  he  said  confi- 
dentially. "The  boys  always  gives  me  the  price 
of  a  pint." 

6 


Joining  Up 

"Right  you  are,  sergeant!'*  I  used  the  ex- 
pression like  a  born  Englishman.  And  with  the 
liberality  of  a  true  soldier,  I  gave  him  my  shil- 
ling, my  first  day's  wage  as  a  British  fighting 
man. 

The  remainder  of  the  week  I  spent  mingling 
with  the  crowds  of  enlisted  men  at  the  Horse 
Guards  Parade,  watching  the  bulletin  boards 
for  the  appearance  of  my  name  which  would 
mean  that  I  was  to  report  at  the  regimental 
depot  at  Hounslow.  My  first  impression  of  the 
men  with  whom  I  was  to  live  for  three  years,  or 
the  duration  of  the  war,  was  anything  but  fa- 
vorable. The  newspapers  had  been  asserting 
that  the  new  army  was  being  recruited  from  the 
flower  of  England's  young  manhood.  The 
throng  at  the  Horse  Guards  Parade  resembled 
an  army  of  the  unemployed,  and  I  thought  it 
likely  that  most  of  them  were  misfits,  out-of- 
works,  the  kind  of  men  who  join  the  army  be- 
cause they  can  do  nothing  else.  There  were,  in 
fact,  a  good  many  of  these.  I  soon  learned, 
however,  that  the  general  out-at-elbows  ap- 
pearance was  due  to  another  cause.  A  genial 
Cockney  gave  me  the  hint. 

7 


Kitchener's  Mob 

"'Ave  you  joined  up,  matey?"  he  asked. 

I  told  him  that  I  had. 

"Well,  'ere's  a  friendly  tip  for  you.  Don't 
wear  them  good  clo'es  w'en  you  goes  to  the 
depot.  You  won't  see  'em  again  likely,  an'  if 
you  gets  through  the  war  you  might  be  a-want- 
in'  of  'em.  Wear  the  worst  rags  you  got." 

I  profited  by  the  advice,  and  when  I  fell  in, 
with  the  other  recruits  for  the  Royal  Fusiliers, 
I  felt  much  more  at  my  ease. 


CHAPTER  II 

ROOKIES 

"A  mob"  is  genuinely  descriptive  of  the  array 
of  would-be  soldiers  which  crowded  the  long 
parade-ground  at  Hounslow  Barracks  during 
that  memorable  last  week  in  August.  We 
herded  together  like  so  many  sheep.  We  had 
lost  our  individuality,  and  it  was  to  be  months 
before  we  regained  it  in  a  new  aspect,  a  collec- 
tive individuality  of  which  we  became  increas- 
ingly proud.  We  squeak-squawked  across  the 
barrack  square  in  boots  which  felt  large  enough 
for  an  entire  family  of  feet.  Our  khaki  service 
dress  uniforms  were  strange  and  uncomfortable. 
Our  hands  hung  limply  along  the  seams  of  our 
pocketless  trousers.  Having  no  place  in  which 
to  conceal  them,  and  nothing  for  them  to  do,  we 
tried  to  ignore  them.  Many  a  Tommy,  in  a 
moment  of  forgetfulness,  would  make  a  dive  for 
the  friendly  pockets  which  were  no  longer  there. 
The  look  of  sheepish  disappointment,  as  his 
hands  slid  limply  down  his  trouser-legs,  was 
most  comical  to  see.    Before  many  days  we 

9 


Kitchener's  Mob 

learned  the  uses  to  which  soldiers'  hands  are 
put.  But  for  the  moment  they  seemed  ab- 
surdly unnecessary. 

We  must  have  been  unpromising  material 
from  the  military  point  of  view.  That  was  evi- 
dently the  opinion  of  my  own  platoon  sergeant. 
I  remember,  word  for  word,  his  address  of  wel- 
come, one  of  soldier-like  brevity  and  pointed- 
ness,  delivered  while  we  stood  awkwardly  at 
attention  on  the  barrack  square. 

"  Lissen  'ere,  you  men  1  I  've  never  saw  such  a 
raw,  roun'-shouldered  batch  o'  rookies  in  fifteen 
years'  service.  Yer  pasty-faced  an'  yer  thin- 
chested.  Gawd  'elp  'Is  Majesty  if  it  ever  lays 
with  you  to  save  'iml  'Owever,  we're  'ere  to  do 
wot  we  can  with  wot  we  got.  Now,  then,  upon 
the  command,  'Form  Fours,'  I  wanna  see  the 
even  numbers  tyke  a  pace  to  the  rear  with  the 
left  foot,  an'  one  to  the  right  with  the  right 
foot.  Like  so:  *  One-one-two!'  Platoon!  Form 
Fours!  Oh!  Orful!  Orful!  As  y'  were!  As  y' 
were!" 

If  there  was  doubt  in  the  minds  of  any  of  us 
as  to  our  rawness,  it  was  quickly  dispelled  by 
our  platoon  sergeants,  regulars  of  long  standing, 

10 


Rookies 

who  had  been  left  in  England  to  assist  in  whip- 
ping the  new  armies  into  shape.  Naturally, 
they  were  disgruntled  at  this,  and  we  offered 
them  such  splendid  opportunities  for  working 
oif  overcharges  of  spleen.  We  had  come  to 
Hounslow,  believing  that,  within  a  few  weeks' 
time,  we  should  be  fighting  in  France,  side  by 
side  with  the  men  of  the  first  British  expedi- 
tionary force.  Lord  Kitchener  had  said  that 
six  months  of  training,  at  the  least,  was  essen- 
tial. This  statement  we  regarded  as  intention- 
ally misleading.  Lord  Kitchener  was  too  shrewd 
a  soldier  to  announce  his  plans;  but  England 
needed  men  badly,  immediately.  After  a  week 
of  training,  we  should  be  proficient  in  the  use 
of  our  rifles.  In  addition  to  this,  all  that  was 
needed  was  the  ability  to  form  fours  and  march, 
in  column  of  route,  to  the  station  where  we 
should  entrain  for  Folkestone  or  Southampton, 
and  France. 

As  soon  as  the  battalion  was  up  to  strength, 
we  were  given  a  day  of  preliminary  drill  before 
proceeding  to  our  future  training  area  in  Essex. 
It  was  a  disillusioning  experience.  Equally  dis- 
appointing was  the  undignified  display  of  our 

II 


Kitchener's  Mob 

little  skill,  at  Charing  Cross  Station,  where  we 
performed  before  a  large  and  amused  London 
audience.  For  my  own  part,  I  could  scarcely 
wait  until  we  were  safely  hidden  within  the 
train.  During  the  journey  to  Colchester,  a  re- 
enlisted  Boer  War  veteran,  from  the  inaccessi- 
ble heights  of  South  African  experience,  en- 
filaded us  with  a  fire  of  sarcastic  comment. 

"I 'm  a-go'n'  to  transfer  out  o'  this  'ere  mob, 
that's  wot  I'm  a  go'n'  to  do!  Soldiers!  S'y! 
I  '11  bet  a  quid  they  ain't  a  one  of  you  ever  saw 
a  rifle  before!  Soldiers.?  Strike  me  pink!  Wot's 
Lord  Kitchener  a-doin'  of,  that's  wot  I  want 
to  know!" 

The  rest  of  us  smoked  in  wrathful  silence, 
until  one  of  the  boys  demonstrated  to  the  Boer 
War  veteran  that  he  knew,  at  least,  how  to  use 
his  fists.  There  was  some  bloodshed,  followed 
by  reluctant  apologies  on  the  part  of  the  Boer 
warrior.  It  was  one  of  innumerable  differences 
of  opinion  which  I  witnessed  during  the  months 
that  followed.  And  most  of  them  were  settled 
in  the  same  decisive  way. 

Although  mine  was  a  London  regiment,  we 
had  men  in  the  ranks  from  all  parts  of  the 

12 


Rookies 

United  Kingdom.  There  were  North-Country- 
men, a  few  Welsh,  Scotch,  and  Irish,  men  from 
the  Midlands  and  from  the  south  of  England. 
But  for  the  most  part  we  were  Cockneys,  born 
within  the  sound  of  Bow  Bells.  I  had  planned 
to  follow  the  friendly  advice  of  the  recruiting 
sergeant.  "Talk  like  'em,"  he  had  said.  There- 
fore, I  struggled  bravely  with  the  peculiarities 
of  the  Cockney  twang,  recklessly  dropped 
aitches  when  I  should  have  kept  them,  and 
prefixed  them  indiscriminately  before  every 
convenient  aspirate.  But  all  my  efforts  were 
useless.  The  imposition  was  apparent  to  my 
fellow  Tommies  immediately.  I  had  only  to 
begin  speaking,  within  the  hearing  of  a  genuine 
Cockney,  when  he  would  say,  "  'Ello !  w'ere  do 
you  come  from?  The  Stites?"  or,  "I'll  bet  a 
tanner  you're  a  Yank!"  I  decided  to  make  a 
confession,  and  I  have  been  glad,  ever  since, 
that  I  did.  The  boys  gave  me  a  warm  and 
hearty  welcome  when  they  learned  that  I  was 
a  sure-enough  American.  They  called  me 
"Jamie  the  Yank."  I  was  a  piece  of  tangible 
evidence  of  the  bond  of  sympathy  existing  be- 
tween the  two  great  English-speaking  nations. 

13 


Kitchener's  Mob 

I  told  them  of  the  many  Americans  of  German 
extraction,  whose  sympathies  were  honestly 
and  sincerely  on  the  other  side.  But  they  would 
not  have  it  so.  I  was  the  personal  representa- 
tive of  the  American  people.  My  presence  in 
the  British  army  was  proof  positive  of  this. 

Being  an  American,  It  was  very  hard,  at 
first,  to  understand  the  class  distinctions  of 
British  army  life.  And  having  understood 
them,  it  was  more  difficult  yet  to  endure  them. 
I  learned  that  a  ranker,  or  private  soldier,  is 
a  socially  inferior  being  from  the  ofiicer's  point 
of  view.  The  officer  class  and  the  ranker  class 
are  east  and  west,  and  never  the  twain  shall 
meet,  except  in  their  respective  places  upon  the 
parade-ground.  This  does  not  hold  good,  to 
the  same  extent,  upon  active  service.  Hard- 
ships and  dangers,  shared  in  common,  tend  to 
break  down  artificial  barriers.  But  even  then, 
although  there  was  good-will  and  friendliness 
between  officers  and  men,  I  saw  nothing  of 
genuine  comradeship.  This  seemed  to  me  a 
great  pity.  It  was  a  loss  for  the  officers  fully 
as  much  as  It  was  for  the  men. 

I  had  to  accept,  for  convenience  sake,  the 

14 


Rookies 

fact  of  my  social  inferiority.  Centuries  of 
army  tradition  demanded  it;  and  I  discovered 
that  it  is  absolutely  futile  for  one  inconsequen- 
tial American  to  rebel  against  the  unshakable 
fortress  of  English  tradition.  Nearly  all  of  my 
comrades  were  used  to  clear-cut  class  distinc- 
tions in  civilian  life.  It  made  little  difference 
to  them  that  some  of  our  officers  were  recruits 
as  raw  as  were  we  ourselves.  They  had  money 
enough  and  education  enough  and  influence 
enough  to  secure  the  king's  commission;  and 
that  fact  was  proof  enough  for  Tommy  that 
they  were  gentlemen,  and,  therefore,  too  good 
for  the  likes  of  him  to  be  associating  with. 

"Look  'ere!  Ain't  a  gentleman  a  gentleman? 
I'm  arskin'  you,  ain't  'e.?" 

I  saw  the  futility  of  discussing  this  question 
with  Tommy.  And  later,  I  realized  how  import- 
ant for  British  army  discipline  such  distinctions 
are. 

So  great  is  the  force  of  prevailing  opinion 
that  I  sometimes  found  myself  accepting 
Tommy's  point  of  view.  I  wondered  if  I  was, 
for  some  eugenic  reason,  the  inferior  of  these 
men  whom  I  had  to  "Sir"  and  salute  whenever 

IS 


Kitchener's  Mob 

I  dared  speak.  Such  lapses  were  only  occa- 
sional. But  I  understood,  for  the  first  time, 
how  important  a  part  circumstance  and  en- 
vironment play  in  shaping  one's  mental  atti- 
tude. How  I  longed,  at  times,  to  chat  with 
colonels  and  to  joke  with  captains  on  terms  of 
equality!  Whenever  I  confided  these  aspira- 
tions to  Tommy  he  gazed  at  me  in  awe. 

"Don't  be  a  bloomin'  ijut!  They  could  jolly 
well  'ang  you  fer  that!" 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  MOB   IN  TRAINING 

The  Nth  Service  Battalion,  Royal  Fusiliers, 
on  the  march  was  a  sight  not  easily  to  be 
forgotten.  To  the  Inhabitants  of  Colchester, 
Folkestone,  Shorncliffe,  Aldershot,  and  other 
towns  and  villages  throughout  the  south  of 
England,  we  were  well  known.  We  displayed 
ourselves  with  what  must  have  seemed  to  them 
a  shameless  disregard  for  appearances.  Our 
approach  was  announced  by  a  discordant  tu- 
mult of  fifes  and  drums,  for  our  band,  of  which 
later,  we  became  justly  proud,  was  a  newly 
fledged  and  still  imperfect  organization.  Win- 
dows were  flung  up  and  doors  thrown  open 
along  our  line  of  march;  but  alas,  we  were 
greeted  with  no  welcome  glances  of  kindly  ap- 
proval, no  waving  of  handkerchiefs,  no  clap- 
ping of  hands.  Nursemaids,  who  are  said  to 
have  a  nice  and  discriminating  eye  for  soldiery, 
gazed  in  amused  and  contemptuous  silence  as 
we  passed.  Children  looked  at  us  in  wide-eyed 
wonder.   Only  the  dumb  beasts  were  demon- 

17 


Kitchener's  Mob 

stratlve,  and  they  in  a  manner  which  was  not 
at  all  to  our  liking.  Dogs  barked,  and  sedate 
old  family  horses,  which  would  stand  placidly 
at  the  curbing  while  fire  engines  thundered 
past  with  bells  clanging  and  sirens  shrieking, 
pricked  up  their  ears  at  our  approach,  and, 
after  one  startled  glance,  galloped  madly  away 
and  disappeared  in  clouds  of  dust  far  in  the 
distance. 

We  knew  why  the  nursemaids  were  cool,  and 
why  family  horses  developed  hysteria  with 
such  startling  suddenness.  But  in  our  pride 
we  did  not  see  that  which  we  did  not  wish  to 
see.  Therefore  we  marched,  or,  to  be  more 
truthful,  shambled  on,  shouting  lusty  choruses 
with  an  air  of  boisterous  gayety  which  was 
anything  but  genuine. 

"You  do  as  I  do  and  you'll  do  right, 
Fall  in  and  follow  me!" 

was  a  favorite  with  number  12  platoon.  Their 
enthusiasm  might  have  carried  conviction  had 
it  not  been  for  their  personal  appearance,  which 
certainly  did  not.  Number  15  platoon  would 
strive  manfully  for  a  hearing  with 

18 


The  Mob  in  Training 

"Steadily,  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
Steadily,  blade  by  blade; 
Marching  along. 
Sturdy  and  strong. 
Like  the  boys  of  the  old  brigade." 


As  a  Strictly  accurate  historian  I  must  confess 
that  none  of  these  assertions  were  quite  true. 
We  marched  neither  steadily,  nor  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  nor  blade  by  blade.  We  straggled  all 
over  the  road,  and  kept  step  only  when  the 
sergeant  major  doubled  forward,  warning  us, 
with  threats  of  extra  drills,  to  keep  in  our  fours 
or  to  "pick  it  up!"  In  fact,  "the  boys  of  the 
old  brigade,"  whoever  they  may  have  been, 
would  have  scornfully  repudiated  the  sugges- 
tion that  we  resembled  them  in  any  respect. 

They  would  have  been  justified  in  doing  so 
had  any  of  them  seen  us  at  the  end  of  six  weeks 
of  training.  For,  however  reluctantly,  we  were 
forced  to  admit  that  Sergeant  Harris  was  right 
when  he  called  us  "a  raw  batch  o'  rookies." 
Unpromising  we  were  not.  There  was  good 
stuff  in  the  ranks,  the  material  from  which 
real  soldiers  are  made,  and  were  made;  but  it 
had  not  yet  been  rounded  into  shape.  We  were 

19 


Kitchener's  Mob 

still  nothing  more  than  a  homogeneous  assem- 
bly of  Individuals. 

We  declined  to  accept  the  responsibility  for 
the  seeming  slowness  of  our  progress.  We 
threw  it  unhesitatingly  upon  the  War  Office, 
which  had  not  equipped  us  in  a  manner  befit- 
ting our  new  station  in  life.  Although  we  were 
recruited  immediately  after  the  outbreak  of 
war,  less  than  half  of  our  number  had  been  pro- 
vided with  uniforms.  Many  still  wore  their  old 
civilian  clothing.  Others  were  dressed  In  can- 
vas fatigue  suits,  or  the  worn-out  uniforms  of 
policemen  and  tramcar  conductors.  Every  old- 
clothes  shop  on  Petticoat  Lane  must  have  con- 
tributed its  allotment  of  cast-off  apparel. 

Our  arms  and  equipment  were  of  an  equally 
nondescript  character.  We  might  easily  have 
been  mistaken  for  a  mob  of  vagrants  which 
had  pillaged  a  seventeenth-century  arsenal. 
With  a  few  slight  changes  in  costuming  for  the 
sake  of  historical  fidelity,  we  would  have  served 
as  a  citizen  army  for  a  realistic  motion-picture 
drama  depicting  an  episode  in  the  French 
Revolution. 

We  derived  what  comfort  we  could  from  the 

20 


The  Mob  in  Training 

knowledge  that  we  were  but  one  of  many  bat- 
talions of  Kitchener's  first  hundred  thousand 
equipped  in  this  same  makeshift  fashion.  We 
did  not  need  the  repeated  assurances  of  cabinet 
ministers  that  England  was  not  prepared  for 
war.  We  were  in  a  position  to  know  that  she 
was  not.  Otherwise,  there  had  been  an  unpar- 
donable lack  of  foresight  in  high  places.  Sup- 
plies came  in  driblets.  Each  night,  when  pa- 
rades for  the  day  were  over,  there  was  a  rush 
for  the  orderly  room  bulletin  board,  which  was 
scanned  eagerly  for  news  of  an  early  issue  of 
clothing.  As  likely  as  not  we  were  disappointed, 
but  occasionally  jaded  hopes  revived. 

"Number  15  platoon  will  parade  at  4  p.m. 
on  Thursday,  the  24th,  for  boots,  puttees, 
braces,  and  service  dress  caps." 

Number  15  is  our  platoon.  Promptly  at  the 
hour  set  we  halt  and  right-turn  in  front  of  the 
Quartermaster  Stores  marquee.  The  quarter- 
master is  there  with  pencil  and  notebook, 
and  immediately  takes  charge  of  the  proceed- 
ings. 

"All  men  needing  boots,  one  pace  step  for- 
ward, March!" 

21 


Kitchener's  Mob 

The  platoon,  sixty-five  strong,  steps  forward 
as  one  man. 

"All  men  needing  braces,  one  pace  step  back, 
March!" 

Again  we  move  as  a  unit.  The  quartermaster 
hesitates  for  a  moment;  but  he  is  a  resourceful 
man  and  has  been  through  this  many  times 
before.  We  all  need  boots,  quite  right!  But  the 
question  is.  Who  need  them  most?  Undoubt- 
edly those  whose  feet  are  most  in  evidence 
through  worn  soles  and  tattered  uppers.  Adopt- 
ing this  sight  test,  he  eliminates  more  than  half 
the  platoon,  whereupon,  by  a  further  process 
of  elimination,  due  to  the  fact  that  he  has  only 
sizes  7  and  8,  he  selects  the  fortunate  twelve 
who  are  to  walk  dry  shod. 

The  same  method  of  procedure  is  carried  out 
in  selecting  the  braces.  Private  Reynolds, 
whose  trousers  are  held  in  place  by  a  wonderful 
mechanism  composed  of  shoe-laces  and  bits  of 
string,  receives  a  pair;  likewise,  Private  Stene- 
bras,  who,  with  the  aid  of  safety  pins,  has 
fashioned  coat  and  trousers  into  an  ingenious 
one-piece  garment.  Caps  and  puttees  are  dis- 
tributed with  like  impartiality,  and  we  dismiss, 

22 


The  Mob  in  Training 

the  unfortunate  ones  growling  and  grumbling 
in  discreet  undertones  until  the  platoon  com- 
mander is  out  of  hearing,  whereupon  the 
murmurs  of  discontent  become  loudly  articu- 
late. 

"Kitchener's  Rag-Time  Army  I  calls  it!" 
growls  the  veteran  of  South  African  fame. 
"Ain't  we  a  'andsome  lot  o'  pozzie  wallopers? 
Service?  We  ain't  never  a-go'n'  to  see  service! 
You  blokes  won't,  but  watch  me!  I'm  a-go'n' 
to  grease  off  out  o'  this  mob!" 

No  one  remonstrated  with  this  deservedly 
unpopular  reservist  when  he  grumbled  about 
the  shortage  of  supplies.  He  voiced  the  general 
sentiment.  We  all  felt  that  we  would  like  to 
"grease  off"  out  of  it.  Our  deficiencies  in 
clothing  and  equipment  were  met  by  the  Gov- 
ernment with  what  seemed  to  us  amazing  slow- 
ness. However,  Tommy  is  a  sensible  man. 
He  realized  that  England  had  a  big  contract  to 
fulfill,  and  that  the  first  duty  was  to  provide 
for  the  armies  in  the  field.  France,  Russia, 
Belgium,  all  were  looking  to  England  for  sup- 
plies. Kitchener's  Mob  must  wait,  trusting  to 
the  genius  for  organization,  the  faculty  for  get- 

23 


Kitchener's  Mob 

ting  things  done,  of  its  great  and  worthy  chief, 
K.  of  K. 

Our  housing  accommodations,  throughout 
the  autumn  and  winter  of  1914-15,  when  Eng- 
land was  in  such  urgent  need  of  shelter  for 
her  rapidly  increasing  armies,  were  also  of  the 
makeshift  order.  We  slept  in  leaky  tents  or  in 
hastily  constructed  wooden  shelters,  many  of 
which  were  afterward  condemned  by  the  medi- 
cal inspectors.  St.  Martin's  Plain,  Shorncliife, 
was  an  ideal  camping-site  for  pleasant  summer 
weather.  But  when  the  autumnal  rains  set  in, 
the  green  pasture  land  became  a  quagmire. 
Mud  was  the  great  reality  of  our  lives,  the 
malignant  deity  which  we  fell  down  (in)  and 
propitiated  with  profane  rites.  It  was  a  thin, 
watery  mud  or  a  thick,  viscous  mud,  as  the 
steady  downpour  increased  or  diminished.  Late 
in  November  we  were  moved  to  a  city  of 
wooden  huts  at  Sandling  Junction,  to  make 
room  for  newly  recruited  units.  The  dwellings 
were  but  half- finished,  the  drains  were  open 
ditches,  and  the  rains  descended  and  the  floods 
came  as  usual.    We  lived  an  amphibious  and 

24 


The  Mob  in  Training 

wretched  existence  until  January,  when,  to  our 
great  joy,  we  were  transferred  to  billets  in  the 
Metropole,  one  of  Folkestone's  most  fashion- 
able hotels.  To  be  sure,  we  slept  on  bare  floors, 
but  the  roof  was  rainproof,  which  was  the  es- 
sential thing.  The  aesthetically  inclined  could 
lie  in  their  blankets  at  night,  gazing  at  richly 
gilded  mirrors  over  the  mantelpieces  and  beau- 
tifully frescoed  ceilings  refurnishing  our  apart- 
ments in  all  their  former  splendor.  Private 
Henry  Morgan  was  not  of  this  type.  Henry 
came  in  one  evening  rather  the  worse  for  liquor 
and  with  clubbed  musket  assaulted  his  un- 
lovely reflection  in  an  expensive  mirror.  I  be- 
lieve he  is  still  paying  for  his  lack  of  restraint 
at  the  rate  of  a  sixpence  per  day,  and  will  have 
canceled  his  obligation  by  January,  1921,  if 
the  war  continues  until  that  time. 

Although  we  were  poorly  equipped  and  some- 
times wretchedly  housed,  the  commissariat  was 
excellent  and  on  the  most  generous  scale  from 
the  very  beginning.  Indeed,  there  was  nearly 
as  much  food  wasted  as  eaten.  Naturally,  the 
men  made  no  complaint,   although  they  re- 

25 


Kitchener's^  Mob 

gretted  seeing  such  quantities  of  food  thrown 
daily  into  the  refuse  barrels.  I  often  felt  that 
something  should  be  done  about  it.  Many 
exposes  were,  in  fact,  written  from  all  parts  of 
England.  It  was  irritating  to  read  of  German 
efficiency  in  the  presence  of  England's  extrava- 
gant and  unbusinesslike  methods.  Tommy 
would  say,  "Lor,  lummy!  Ain't  we  got  no 
pigs  in  England.?  That  there  food  won't  be 
wasted.  We  '11  be  eatin'  it  in  sausages  w'en  we 
goes  acrost  the  Channel";  whereupon  he  dis- 
missed the  whole  question  from  his  mind.  This 
seemed  to  me  then  the  typical  Anglo-Saxon 
attitude.  Everywhere  there  was  waste,  mud- 
dle-headedness,  and  apparently  it  was  nobody's 
business,  nobody's  concern.  Camps  were  sited 
in  the  wrong  places  and  buildings  erected  only 
to  be  condemned.  Tons  of  food  were  pur- 
chased overseas,  transported  across  thousands 
of  miles  of  ocean,  only  to  be  thrown  into  refuse 
barrels.  The  Government  was  robbed  by  avari- 
cious hotel-keepers  who  made  and  were  granted 
absurd  claims  for  damages  done  to  their  prop- 
erty by  billeted  troops.  But  with  vast  new 
armies,  recruited  overnight,  it  Is  not  strange 

26 


The  Mob  in  Training 

that  there  should  be  mismanagement  and  fric- 
tion at  first.  As  the  months  passed,  there  was 
a  marked  change  for  the  better.  British  effi- 
ciency asserted  itself.  This  was  made  evident 
to  us  in  scores  of  ways  —  the  distribution  of 
supplies,  the  housing  and  equipping  of  troops, 
their  movements  from  one  training  area  to 
another.  At  the  last,  we  could  only  marvel  that 
a  great  and  complicated  military  machine  had 
been  so  admirably  and  quickly  perfected. 

Meanwhile  our  rigorous  training  continued 
from  week  to  week  in  all  weathers,  even  the  most 
inclement.  Reveille  sounded  at  daybreak.  For 
an  hour  before  breakfast  we  did  Swedish  drill, 
a  system  of  gymnastics  which  brought  every 
lazy  and  disused  muscle  into  play.  Two  hours 
daily  were  given  to  musketry  practice.  We 
were  instructed  in  the  description  and  recogni- 
tion of  targets,  the  use  of  cover,  but  chiefly  in 
the  use  of  our  rifles.  Through  constant  hand- 
ling they  became  a  part  of  us,  a  third  arm 
which  we  grew  to  use  quite  instinctively.  We 
fired  the  recruit's,  and  later,  the  trained  sol- 
dier's course  in  musketry  on  the  rifle  ranges  at 

27 


Kitchener's  Mob 

Hythe  and  Aldershot,  gradually  improving  our 
technique,  until  we  were  able  to  fire  with  some 
accuracy,  fifteen  rounds  per  minute.  When  we 
had  achieved  this  difficult  feat,  we  ceased  to  be 
recruits.  We  were  skilled  soldiers  of  the  proud 
and  illustrious  order  known  as  "England's 
Mad-Minute  Men."  After  musketry  practice, 
the  remainder  of  the  day  was  given  to  extended 
order,  company,  and  battalion  drill.  Twice 
weekly  we  route-marched  from  ten  to  fifteen 
miles;  and  at  night,  after  the  parades  for  the 
day  were  finished,  boxing  and  wrestling  con- 
tests, arranged  and  encouraged  by  our  officers, 
kept  the  red  blood  pounding  through  our  bodies 
until  "lights  out"  sounded  at  nine  o'clock. 

The  character  of  our  training  changed  as  we 
progressed.  We  were  done  with  squad,  platoon, 
and  company  drill.  Then  came  field  maneuvers, 
attacks  in  open  formation  upon  intrenched  po- 
sitions, finishing  always  with  terrific  bayonet 
charges.  There  were  mimic  battles,  lasting  all 
day,  with  from  ten  to  twenty  thousand  men 
on  each  side.  Artillery,  infantry,  cavalry,  air 
craft  —  every  branch  of  army  service,  in  fact  — 
had  a  share  in  these  exciting  field  days  when  we 

28 


The  Mob  in  Training 

gained  bloodless  victories  or  died  painless  and 
easy  deaths  at  the  command  of  red-capped  field 
judges.  We  rushed  boldly  to  the  charge,  shout- 
ing lustily,  each  man  striving  to  be  first  at  the 
enemy's  position,  only  to  be  intercepted  by  a 
staff  officer  on  horseback,  staying  the  tide  of 
battle  with  uplifted  hand. 

"March  your  men  back,  officer!  You're  out 
of  action!  My  word!  You've  made  a  beastly 
mess  of  it!  You're  not  on  church  parade,  you 
know!  You  advanced  across  the  open  for  three 
quarters  of  a  mile  in  close  column  of  platoons ! 
Three  batteries  of  field  artillery  and  four  ma- 
chine guns  have  blown  you  to  blazes!  You 
have  n't  a  man  left!" 

Sometimes  we  reached  our  objective  with 
less  fearful  slaughter,  but  at  the  moment  when 
there  should  have  been  the  sharp  clash  and 
clang  of  steel  on  steel,  the  cries  and  groans  of 
men  fighting  for  their  lives,  we  heard  the  bugles 
from  far  and  near,  sounding  the  "stand  by," 
and  friend  and  enemy  dropped  wearily  to  the 
ground  for  a  rest  while  our  officers  assembled  in 
conference  around  the  motor  of  the  divisional 
general. 

29 


Kitchener*s  Mob 

All  this  was  playing  at  war,  and  Tommy  was 
"fed  up"  with  play.  As  we  marched  back  to 
barracks  after  a  long  day  of  monotonous  field 
maneuvers,  he  eased  his  mind  by  making  sar- 
castic comments  upon  this  inconclusive  kind 
of  warfare.  He  began  to  doubt  the  good  faith 
of  the  War  Office  in  calling  ours  a  "service" 
battalion.  As  likely  as  not  we  were  for  home 
defense  and  would  never  be  sent  abroad. 

"Left!  Right!  Left!  Right! 
Why  did  I  join  the  army? 
Oh!  Why  did  I  ever  join  Kitchener's  Mob.? 
Lor  lummy!  I  must  'ave  been  balmy!"  — 

became  the  favorite,  homeward-bound  march- 
ing song.  And  so  he  "groused"  and  grumbled 
after  the  manner  of  Tommies  the  world  over. 
And  In  the  mean  time  he  was  daily  approaching 
more  nearly  the  standard  of  efficiency  set  by 
England's  inexorable  War  Lord. 

It  was  interesting  to  note  the  physical  im- 
provement in  the  men  wrought  by  a  life  of 
healthy,  well-ordered  routine.  My  battalion 
was  recruited  largely  from  what  is  known  in 
England  as  "the  lower  middle  classes."  There 

30 


The  Mob  in  Training 

were  shop  assistants,  clerks,  railway  and  city 
employees,  tradesmen,  and  a  generous  sprink- 
ling of  common  laborers.  Many  of  them  had 
been  used  to  indoor  life,  practically  all  of  them 
to  city  life,  and  needed  months  of  the  hardest 
kind  of  training  before  they  could  be  made 
physically  fit,  before  they  could  be  seasoned 
and  toughened  to  withstand  the  hardships  of 
active  service. 

Plenty  of  hard  work  in  the  open  air  brought 
great  and  welcome  changes.  The  men  talked  of 
their  food,  anticipated  it  with  a  zest  which 
came  from  realizing,  for  the  first  time,  the  joy 
of  being  genuinely  hungry.  They  watched 
their  muscles  harden  with  the  satisfaction 
known  to  every  normal  man  when  he  is  be- 
coming physically  efficient.  Food,  exercise,  and 
rest,  taken  in  wholesome  quantities  and  at 
regular  intervals,  were  having  the  usual  excel- 
lent results.  For  my  own  part,  I  had  never 
before  been  in  such  splendid  health.  I  wished 
that  it  might  at  all  times  be  possible  for  de- 
mocracies to  exercise  a  beneficent  paternalism 
over  the  lives  of  their  citizenry,  at  least  in 
matters  of  health.    It  seems  a  great  pity  that 

31 


Kitchener's  Mob 

the  principle  of  personal  freedom  should  be 
responsible  for  so  many  ill-shaped  and  ill-sorted 
physical  incompetents.  My  fellow  Tommies 
were  living,  really  living,  for  the  first  time. 
They  had  never  before  known  what  it  means 
to  be  radiantly,  buoyantly  healthy. 

There  were,  as  well,  more  profound  and 
subtle  changes  in  thoughts  and  habits.  The 
restraints  of  discipline  and  the  very  exacting 
character  of  military  life  and  training  gave 
them  self-control,  mental  alertness.  At  the 
beginning,  they  were  individuals,  no  more  co- 
hesive than  so  many  grains  of  wet  sand.  After 
nine  months  of  training  they  acted  as  a  unit, 
obeying  orders  with  that  instinctive  prompt- 
ness of  action  which  is  so  essential  on  the  field 
of  battle  when  men  think  scarcely  at  all.  But 
it  is  true  that  what  was  their  gain  as  soldiers 
was,  to  a  certain  extent,  their  loss  as  individuals. 
When  we  went  on  active  service  I  noted  that 
men  who  were  excellent  followers  were  not  in- 
frequently lost  when  called  upon  for  inde- 
pendent action.  They  had  not  been  trained  to 
take  the  initiative,  and  had  become  so  accus- 
tomed to  having  their  thinking  done  for  them 

32 


The  Mob  in  Training 

that  they  often  became  confused  and  excited 
when  they  had  to  do  it  for  themselves. 

Discipline  was  an  all-Important  factor  In  the 
daily  grind.  At  the  beginning  of  their  training, 
the  men  of  the  new  armies  were  gently  dealt 
with.  Allowances  were  made  for  civilian  frail- 
ties and  shortcomings.  But  as  they  adapted 
themselves  to  changed  conditions,  restrictions 
became  increasingly  severe.  Old  privileges  dis- 
appeared one  by  one.  Individual  liberty  be- 
came a  thing  of  the  past.  The  men  resented 
this  bitterly  for  a  time.  Fierce  hatreds  of  officers 
and  N.C.O.s  were  engendered  and  there  was 
much  talk  of  revenge  when  we  should  get  to 
the  front.  I  used  to  look  forward  with  misgiv- 
ing to  that  day.  It  seemed  probable  that  one 
night  in  the  trenches  would  suffice  for  a  whole- 
sale slaughtering  of  officers.  Old  scores  were 
to  be  paid  off,  old  grudges  wiped  out  with  our 
first  Issue  of  ball  ammunition.  Many  a  fist- 
banged  board  at  the  wet  canteen  gave  proof  of 
Tommy's  earnestness. 

"Shoot  'im?"  he  would  say,  rattling  the  beer 
glasses  the  whole  length  of  the  table  w^ith  a 
mighty  blow  of  his  fist.  "Blimy!  Wite!  That's 

33 


Kitchener's  Mob 

all  you  got  to  do !  Just  wite  till  we  get  on  the 
other  side!" 

But  all  these  threats  were  forgotten  months 
before  the  time  came  for  carrying  them  out. 
Once  Tommy  understood  the  reasonableness  of 
severe  discipline,  he  took  his  punishment  for 
his  offenses  without  complaint.  He  realized, 
too,  the  futility  of  kicking  against  the  pricks. 
In  the  army  he  belonged  to  the  Government 
body  and  soul.  He  might  resent  its  treatment 
of  him.  He  might  behave  like  a  sulky  school- 
boy, disobey  order  after  order,  and  break  rule 
after  rule.  In  that  case  he  found  himself  check- 
mated at  every  turn.  Punishment  became  more 
and  more  severe.  No  one  was  at  all  concerned 
.about  his  grievances.  He  might  become  an 
habitual  offender  from  sheer  stupidity,  but  in 
doing  so,  he  injured  no  one  but  himself. 

A  few  of  these  incorrigibles  were  discharged 
in  disgrace.  A  few  followed  the  lead  of  the 
Boer  warrior.  After  many  threats  which  we 
despaired  of  his  ever  carrying  out,  he  finally 
"greased  off."  He  was  immediately  posted  as 
a  deserter,  but  to  our  great  joy  was  never 
captured.  With  the  disappearance  of  the  mal- 

34 


The  Mob  in  Training 

contents  and  Incorrlgibles  the  battalion  soon 
reached  a  high  grade  of  efficiency.  The  phys- 
ical incompetents  were  likewise  ruthlessly 
weeded  out.  All  of  us  had  passed  a  fairly 
thorough  examination  at  the  recruiting  offices; 
but  many  had  physical  defects  which  were  dis- 
covered only  by  the  test  of  actual  training.  In 
the  early  days  of  the  war,  requirements  were 
much  more  severe  than  later,  when  England 
learned  how  great  would  be  the  need  for  men. 
Many,  who  later  reenlisted  in  other  regiments, 
were  discharged  as  "physically  unfit  for  further 
military  service." 

If  the  standard  of  conduct  in  my  battalion 
is  any  criterion,  then  I  can  say  truthfully  that 
there  is  very  little  crime  in  Lord  Kitchener's 
armies  either  in  England  or  abroad.  The 
"jankers"  or  defaulters'  squad  was  always 
rather  large;  but  the  "jankers  men"  were 
offenders  against  minor  points  in  discipline. 
Their  crimes  were  untidy  appearance  on  pa- 
rade, inattention  in  the  ranks,  tardiness  at  roll- 
call,  and  others  of  the  sort,  all  within  the  juris- 
diction of  a  company  officer.  The  punishment 
meted  out  varied  according  to  the  seriousness 

35 


Kitchener's  Mob 

of  the  offense,  and  the  past-conduct  record  of 
the  offender.  It  usually  consisted  of  from  one  to 
ten  days,  "C.B."  —  confined  to  barracks.  Dur- 
ing the  period  of  his  sentence  the  offender  was 
forbidden  to  leave  camp  after  the  parades  for 
the  day  were  ended.  And  in  order  that  he 
might  have  no  opportunity  to  do  so,  he  was 
compelled  to  answer  his  name  at  the  guard- 
room whenever  it  should  be  sounded. 

Only  twice  in  England  did  we  have  a  general 
court-martial,  the  offense  in  each  case  being 
assault  by  a  private  upon  an  N.C.O.,  and  the 
penalty  awarded,  three  months  in  the  military 
prison  at  Aldershot.  Tommy  was  quiet  and 
law-abiding  in  England,  his  chief  lapses  being 
due  to  an  exaggerated  estimate  of  his  capacity 
for  beer.  In  France,  his  conduct,  in  so  far  as  my 
observation  goes,  has  been  splendid  throughout. 
During  six  months  in  the  trenches  I  saw  but  two 
instances  of  drunkenness.  Although  I  witnessed 
nearly  everything  which  took  place  in  my 
own  battalion,  and  heard  the  general  gossip  of 
many  others,  never  did  I  see  or  hear  of  a  woman 
treated  otherwise  than  courteously.  Neither  did 
I  see  or  hear  of  any  instances  of  looting  or 

36 


The  Mob  in  Training 

petty  pilfering  from  the  civilian  inhabitants. 
It  is  true  that  the  men  had  fewer  opportunities 
for  misconduct,  and  they  were  fighting  in  a 
friendly  country.  Even  so,  active  service  as  we 
found  it  was  by  no  means  free  from  tempta- 
tions. The  admirable  restraint  of  most  of  the 
men  in  the  face  of  them  was  a  fine  thing  to  see. 

Frequent  changes  were  made  in  methods  of 
training  in  England,  to  correspond  with  chang- 
ing conditions  of  modern  warfare  as  exemplified 
in  the  trenches.  Textbooks  on  military  tactics 
and  strategy,  which  were  the  inspired  gospel  of 
the  last  generation  of  soldiers,  became  obso- 
lete overnight.  Experience  gained  in  Indian 
Mutiny  wars  or  on  the  veldt  In  South  Africa 
was  of  little  value  in  the  trenches  in  Flanders. 
The  emphasis  shifted  from  open  fighting  to 
trench  warfare,  and  the  textbook  which  our 
officers  studied  was  a  typewritten  serial  issued 
semlweekly  by  the  War  Office,  and  which  was 
based  on  the  dearly  bought  experience  of  officers 
at  the  front. 

We  spent  many  a  starry  night  on  the  hills 
above  Folkestone  digging  trenches  and  building 
dug-outs  according  to  General  Staff  instruc- 

37 


Kitchener's  Mob 

tions,  and  many  a  rainy  one  we  came  home, 
covered  with  mud,  but  happy  in  the  thought 
that  we  were  approximating,  as  nearly  as  could 
be,  the  experience  of  the  boys  at  the  front. 
Bomb-throwing  squads  were  formed,  and  the 
best  shots  in  the  battalion,  the  men  who  had 
made  marksmen's  scores  on  the  rifle  ranges, 
were  given  daily  instruction  in  the  important 
business  of  sniping.  More  generous  provision 
for  the  training  of  machine-gun  teams  was 
made,  but  so  great  was  the  lack  In  England  of 
these  important  weapons,  that  for  many  weeks 
we  drilled  with  wooden  substitutes,  gaining 
such  knowledge  of  machine  gunnery  as  we 
could  from  the  study  of  our  M.G.  manuals. 

These  new  duties,  coming  as  an  addition  to 
our  other  work,  meant  an  increased  period  of 
training.  We  were  impatient  to  be  at  the 
front,  but  we  realized  by  this  time  that  Lord 
Kitchener  was  serious  In  his  demand  that  the 
men  of  the  new  armies  be  efficiently  trained. 
Therefore  we  worked  with  a  will,  and  at  last, 
after  nine  months  of  monotonous  toil,  the  order 
came.  We  were  to  proceed  on  active  service. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ORDERED   ABROAD 

One  Sunday  morning  in  May  we  assembled 
on  the  barrack  square  at  Aldershot  for  the  last 
time.  Every  man  was  in  full  marching  order. 
His  rifle  was  the  "  Short  Lee  Enfield,  Mark  IV," 
his  bayonet,  the  long  single-edged  blade  in  gen- 
eral use  throughout  the  British  Army.  In  addi- 
tion to  his  arms  he  carried  120  rounds  of  "  .303  " 
caliber  ammunition,  an  intrenching-tool,  water- 
bottle,  haversack,  containing  both  emergency 
and  the  day's  rations,  and  his  pack,  strapped 
to  shoulders  and  waist  in  such  a  way  that  the 
weight  of  it  was  equally  distributed.  His  pack 
contained  the  following  articles:  A  greatcoat, 
a  woolen  shirt,  two  or  three  pairs  of  socks,  a 
change  of  underclothing,  a  "housewife,"  —  the 
soldiers'  sewing-kit,  —  a  towel,  a  cake  of  soap, 
and  a  "hold-all,"  in  which  were  a  knife,  fork, 
spoon,  razor,  shaving-brush,  toothbrush,  and 
comb.  All  of  these  were  useful  and  sometimes 
essential  articles,  particularly  the  toothbrush, 

39 


Kitchener's  Mob 

which  Tommy  regarded  as  the  best  little  instru- 
ment for  cleaning  the  mechanism  of  a  rifle  ever 
invented.  Strapped  on  top  of  the  pack  was  the 
blanket  roll  wrapped  in  a  waterproof  ground 
sheet;  and  hanging  beneath  it,  the  canteen  in 
its  khaki-cloth  cover.  Each  man  wore  an  iden- 
tification disk  on  a  cord  about  his  neck.  It  was 
stamped  with  his  name,  regimental  number, 
regiment,  and  religion.  A  first-aid  field  dressing, 
consisting  of  an  antiseptic  gauze  pad  and  band- 
age and  a  small  vial  of  iodine,  sewn  in  the  lining 
of  his  tunic,  completed  the  equipment. 

Physically,  the  men  were  "in  the  pink,"  as 
Tommy  says.  They  were  clear-eyed,  vigorous, 
alert,  and  as  hard  as  nails.  With  their  caps  on, 
they  looked  the  well-trained  soldiers  which  they 
were;  but  with  caps  removed,  they  resembled  so 
many  uniformed  convicts  less  the  prison  pallor. 
"Oversea  haircuts"  were  the  last  tonsorial  cry, 
and  for  several  days  previous  to  our  departure, 
the  army  hairdressers  had  been  busily  wielding 
the  close-cutting  clippers. 

Each  of  us  had  received  a  copy  of  Lord 
Kitchener's  letter  to  the  troops  ordered  abroad, 
a  brief,  soldierlike  statement  of  the  standard 

40 


Ordered  Abroad 

of  conduct  which  England  expected  of  her 
fighting  men :  — 

You  are  ordered  abroad  as  a  soldier  of  the 
King  to  help  our  French  comrades  against  the 
invasion  of  a  common  enemy.  You  have  to  per- 
form a  task  which  will  need  your  courage,  your 
energy,  your  patience.  Remember  that  the 
honor  of  the  British  Army  depends  upon  your 
individual  conduct.  It  will  be  your  duty  not 
only  to  set  an  example  of  discipline  and  perfect 
steadiness  under  fire,  but  also  to  maintain  the 
most  friendly  relations  with  those  whom  you 
are  helping  in  this  struggle.  The  operations  in 
which  you  are  engaged  will,  for  the  most  part, 
take  place  in  a  friendly  country,  and  you  can  do 
your  own  country  no  better  service  than  in 
showing  yourself,  in  France  and  Belgium,  in 
the  true  character  of  a  British  soldier. 

Be  invariably  courteous,  considerate,  and 
kind.  Never  do  anything  likely  to  injure  or 
destroy  property,  and  always  look  upon  looting 
as  a  disgraceful  act.  You  are  sure  to  meet  with 
a  welcome  and  to  be  trusted ;  and  your  conduct 
must  justify  that  welcome  and  that  trust.  Your 

41 


Kitchener's  Mob 

duty  cannot  be  done  unless  your  health  Is  sound. 
So  keep  constantly  on  your  guard  against  any 
excesses.  In  this  new  experience  you  may  find 
temptations  both  In  wine  and  women.  You 
must  entirely  resist  both  temptations,  and 
while  treating  all  women  with  perfect  courtesy, 
you  should  avoid  any  Intimacy. 

Do  your  duty  bravely. 

Fear  God. 

Honor  the  King. 

Kitchener, 
Field-Marshal. 

It  was  an  effective  appeal  and  a  constant  re- 
minder to  the  men  of  the  glorious  traditions  of 
the  British  Army.  In  the  months  that  followed, 
I  had  opportunity  to  learn  how  deep  and  last- 
ing was  the  Impression  made  upon  them  by 
Lord  Kitchener's  first,  and  I  believe  his  only, 
letter  to  his  soldiers. 

The  machinery  for  moving  troops  In  England 
works  without  the  slightest  friction.  The  men, 
transport,  horses,  commissariat,  medical  stores, 
and  supplies  of  a  battalion  are  entrained  in  less 
than  half  an  hour.  Everything  is  timed  to  the 

42 


Ordered  Abroad 

minute.  Battalion  after  battalion  and  train 
after  train,  we  moved  out  of  Aldershot  at  half- 
hour  Intervals.  Each  train  arrived  at  the  port 
of  embarkation  on  schedule  time  and  pulled  up 
on  the  docks  by  the  side  of  a  troop  transport, 
great  slate-colored  liners  taken  out  of  the  mer- 
chant service.  Not  a  moment  was  lost.  The 
last  man  was  aboard  and  the  last  wagon  on  the 
crane  swinging  up  over  the  ship's  side  as  the 
next  train  came  In. 

Ship  by  ship  we  moved  down  the  harbor  In 
the  twilight,  the  boys  crowding  the  rail  on  both 
sides,  taking  their  farewell  look  at  England  — • 
home.  It  was  the  last  farewell  for  many  of  them, 
but  there  was  no  martial  music,  no  waving  of 
flags,  no  tearful  good-byes.  Our  farewell  was  as 
prosaic  as  our  long  period  of  training  had  been. 
We  were  each  one  a  very  small  part  of  a  tre- 
mendous business  organization  which  works 
without  any  of  the  display  considered  so  essen- 
tial In  the  old  days. 

We  left  England  without  a  cheer.  There  was 
not  so  much  as  a  wave  of  the  hand  from  the 
wharf;  for  there  was  no  one  on  the  wharf  to 
wave,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  dock  laborers, 

43 


Kitchener's  Mob 

and  they  had  seen  too  many  soldiers  oflF  to 
the  front  to  be  sentimental  about  it.  It  was  a 
tense  moment  for  the  men,  but  trust  Tommy 
to  relieve  a  tense  situation.  As  we  steamed 
away  from  the  landing  slip,  we  passed  a  barge, 
loaded  to  the  water's  edge  with  coal.  Tommy 
has  a  song  pat  to  every  occasion.  He  enjoys, 
above  all  things,  giving  a  ludicrous  twist  to  a 
"weepy"  ballad.  When  we  were  within  hailing 
distance  of  the  coal  barge,  he  began  singing  one 
of  this  variety,  "  Keep  the  Home  Fires  Burn- 
ing," to  those  smutty-faced  barge  hands.  Every 
one  joined  in  heartily,  forgetting  all  about  the 
solemnity  of  the  leave-taking. 

Tommy  is  a  prosaic  chap.  This  was  never 
more  apparent  to  me  than  upon  that  pleasant 
evening  in  May  when  we  said  good-bye  to  Eng- 
land. The  lights  of  home  were  twinkling  their 
farewells  far  in  the  distance.  Every  moment 
brought  us  nearer  to  the  great  adventure.  We 
were  "off  to  the  wars,"  to  take  our  places  in  the 
far-flung  battle  line.  Here  was  Romance  lav- 
ishly ofl'ering  gifts  dearest  to  the  hearts  of 
Youth,  offering  them  to  clerks,  barbers,  trades- 
men, drapers'  assistants,  men  who  had  never 

44 


Ordered  Abroad 

known  an  adventure  more  thrilling  than  a  holi- 
day excursion  to  the  Isle  of  Man  or  a  week  of 
cycling  in  Kent.  And  they  accepted  them  with 
all  the  stolidity  native  to  Englishmen.  The 
eyes  of  the  world  were  upon  them.  They  had 
become  the  knights-errant  of  every  schoolgirl. 
They  wxre  figures  of  heroic  proportions  to  every 
one  but  themselves. 

French  soldiers  are  conscious  of  the  roman- 
tic possibilities  offered  them  by  the  so-called 
"divine  accident  of  war."  They  go  forth  to 
fight  for  Glorious  France,  France  the  Uncon- 
querable! Tommy  shoulders  his  rifle  and  de- 
parts for  the  four  corners  of  the  world  on  a 
"bloomin'  fine  little  'oliday!"  A  railway  jour- 
ney and  a  sea  voyage  in  one!  "Blimy!  Not 
'arf  bad,  wot?"  Perhaps  he  is  stirred  at  the 
thought  of  fighting  for  "England,  Home,  and 
Beauty."  Perhaps  he  does  thrill  inwardly,  re- 
membering a  sweetheart  left  behind.  But  he 
keeps  it  jolly  well  to  himself.  He  has  read  me 
many  of  his  letters  home,  some  of  them  written 
during  an  engagement  which  will  figure  promi- 
nently in  the  history  of  the  great  World  War. 
"Well,  I  can't  think  of  anything  more  now," 

45 


Kitchener's  Mob 

threads  its  way  through  a  meager  page  of  com- 
monplaces about  the  weather,  his  food,  and  his 
personal  health.  A  frugal  line  of  cross-marks  for 
kisses,  at  the  bottom  of  the  page,  is  his  only 
concession  to  sentiment. 

There  was,  however,  one  burst  of  enthusiasm, 
as  we  started  on  our  journey,  which  struck  me 
as  being  spontaneous,  and  splendid,  and  thor- 
oughly English.  Outside  the  harbor  we  were 
met  by  our  guardians,  a  fleet  of  destroyers 
which  was  to  give  us  safe  convoy  across  the 
Channel.  The  moment  they  saw  them  the  men 
broke  forth  into  prolonged  cheering,  and  there 
were  glad  shouts  of  — ■ 

"There  they  are,  me  lads!  There's  some  o' 
the  little  old  watch  dogs  wot's  keepin'  'em 
bottled  up!" 

"Good  old  navy!  That's  w'ere  we  got  'em 
by  the  throat!" 
'/  "Let's  give  'em  'Sons  of  the  Sea!'" 

And  they  did.  They  sang  with  a  spirit  of 
exaltation  which  Englishmen  rarely  betray, 
and  which  convinced  me  how  nearly  the  sea 
and  England's  position  as  Mistress  of  the  Seas 
touch  the  Englishman's  heart  of  hearts. 

46 


Ordered  Abroad 

"Sons  of  the  sea, 
All  British  born, 
Sailing  the  ocean, 
Laughing  foes  to  scorn. 
They  may  build  their  ships,  my  lads, 
And  think  they  know  the  game; 
But  they  can't  beat  the  boys  of  the  bulldog 

breed 
Who  made  old  England's  name!" 

It  was  a  confession  of  faith.  On  the  sea 
England  can't  be  beaten.  Tommy  believes  that 
with  his  whole  soul,  and  on  this  occasion  he 
sang  with  all  the  warmth  of  religious  conviction. 

Our  Channel  voyage  was  uneventful.  Each 
transport  was  guarded  by  two  destroyers,  one 
on  either  side,  the  three  vessels  keeping  abreast 
and  about  fifty  yards  apart  during  the  entire 
journey.  The  submarine  menace  was  then  at 
its  height,  and  we  were  prepared  for  an  emer- 
gency. The  boats  were  swung  ready  for  imme- 
diate launching,  and  all  of  the  men  were  pro- 
vided with  life-preservers.  But  England  had 
been  transporting  troops  and  supplies  to  the 
firing-line  for  so  many  months  without  accident 
that  none  of  us  were  at  all  concerned  about  the 
possibility  of  danger.    Furthermore,  the  men 

47 


Kitchener's  Mob 

were  too  busy  studying  "Tommy  Atkins's 
French  Manual"  to  think  about  submarines. 
They  were  putting  the  final  polish  on  their 
accent  In  preparation  for  to-morrow's  landing. 

"Alf,  'ow's  this:  'Madamaselly,  avay  vu  dee 
pang?'" 

"Wot  do  you  s'y  for  ^ Gimme  a  tuppenny 
packet  o'  Nosegay'?" 

"'Bonjoor,  Monseer!'  That  ain't  so  dusty, 
Freddie,  wot?" 

"Let's  try  that  Marcelase  again.  You  start 
It,  'Arry." 

"Let  Nobby.  'E  knows  the  sounds  better 'n 
wot  I  do." 

"  'It  'er  up.  Nobby!  We  gotta  learn  that  so 
we  can  sing  it  on  the  march." 

"Wite  till  I  find  It  in  me  book.    All  right 

now  — 

Aliens  infants  dee  la  Pat-ree, 
La  joor  de  glory  is  arrivay." 

Such  bits  of  conversation  may  be  of  little 
interest,  but  they  have  the  merit  of  being  gen- 
uine. All  of  them  were  jotted  down  In  my  note- 
book at  the  times  when'  I  heard  them. 

The  following  day  we  crowded  into  the  typi- 

48 


Ordered  Abroad 

cal  French  army  troop  train,  eight  chevaux  or 
forty  hommes  to  a  car,  and  started  on  a  leisurely 
journey  to  the  firing-line.  We  traveled  all  day, 
at  eight  or  ten  miles  an  hour,  through  Nor- 
mandy. We  passed  through  pleasant  towns 
and  villages  lying  silent  in  the  afternoon  sun- 
shine, and  seemingly  almost  deserted,  and 
through  the  open  country  fragrant  with  the 
scent  of  apple  blossoms.  Now  and  then  chil- 
dren waved  to  us  from  a  cottage  window,  and 
in  the  fields  old  men  and  women  and  girls 
leaned  silently  on  their  hoes  or  their  rakes  and 
watched  us  pass.  Occasionally  an  old  reservist, 
guarding  the  railway  line,  would  lift  his  cap  and 
shout,  "Vive  I'Angleterre ! "  But  more  often  he 
would  lean  on  his  rifle  and  smile,  nodding  his 
head  courteously  but  silently  to  our  saluta- 
tions. Tommy,  for  all  his  stolid,  dogged  cheeri- 
ness,  sensed  the  tragedy  of  France.  It  was  a 
land  swept  bare  of  all  its  fine  young  manhood. 
There  was  no  pleasant  stir  and  bustle  of  civilian 
life.  Those  who  were  left  went  about  their  work 
silently  and  joylessly.  When  we  asked  of  the 
men,  we  received,  always,  the  same  quiet,  cour- 
teous  reply:  "A  la  guerre,  monsieur." 

49 


Kitchener's  Mob 

The  boys  soon  learned  the  meaning  of  the 
phrase,  "a  la  guerre."  It  became  a  war-cry,  a 
slogan.  It  was  shouted  back  and  forth  from  car 
to  car  and  from  train  to  train.  You  can  imag- 
ine how  eager  we  all  were;  how  we  strained  our 
ears,  whenever  the  train  stopped,  for  the  sound 
of  the  guns.  But  not  until  the  following  morn- 
ing, when  we  reached  the  little  village  at  the 
end  of  our  railway  journey,  did  we  hear  them, 
a  low  muttering  like  the  sound  of  thunder  be- 
yond the  horizon.  How  we  cheered  at  the  first 
faint  sound  which  was  to  become  so  deafening, 
so  terrible  to  us  later!  It  was  music  to  us  then; 
for  we  were  like  the  others  who  had  gone  that 
way.  We  knew  nothing  of  war.  We  thought 
it  must  be  something  adventurous  and  fine. 
Something  to  make  the  blood  leap  and  the 
heart  sing.  We  marched  through  the  village 
and  down  the  poplar-lined  road,  surprised, 
almost  disappointed,  to  see  the  neat,  well-kept 
houses,  and  the  pleasant,  level  fields,  green  with 
spring  crops.  We  had  expected  that  everything 
would  be  in  ruins.  At  this  stage  of  the  journey, 
however,  we  were  still  some  twenty-five  miles 
from  the  firing-line. 

50 


Ordered  Abroad 

During  all  the  journey  from  the  coast,  we 
had  seen,  on  every  side,  evidences  of  that  won- 
derfully organized  branch  of  the  British  mili- 
tary system,  the  Army  Service  Corps.  From 
the  village  at  which  we  detrained,  everything 
was  English.  Long  lines  of  motor  transport 
lorries  were  parked  along  the  sides  of  the  roads. 
There  were  great  ammunition  bases,  commis- 
sariat supply  depots,  motor  repair  shops,  wheel- 
wright and  blacksmith  shops,  where  one  saw 
none  but  khaki-clad  soldiers  engaged  in  all  the 
noncombatant  business  essential  to  the  main- 
tenance of  large  armies.  There  were  long  lines 
of  transport  wagons  loaded  with  supplies,  trav- 
eling iield-kitchens,  with  chimneys  smoking 
and  kettles  steaming  as  they  bumped  over  the 
cobbled  roads,  water  carts.  Red  Cross  carts, 
motor  ambulances,  batteries  of  artillery,  Lon- 
don omnibuses,  painted  slate  gray,  filled  with 
troops,  seemingly  endless  columns  of  infantry 
on  foot,  all  moving  with  us,  along  parallel  roads, 
toward  the  firing-line.  And  most  of  these 
troops  and  supply  columns  belonged  to  my  own 
division,  one  small  cog  in  the  British  fighting 
machine. 

SI 


Kitchener's  Mob 

We  advanced  toward  the  war  zone  in  easy 
stages.  It  was  intensely  hot,  and  the  rough, 
cobbled  roads  greatly  increased  the  difficulty  of 
marching.  In  England  we  had  frequently 
tramped  from  fifteen  to  twenty-five  miles  in  a 
day  without  fatigue.^  But  the  roads  there  were 
excellent,  and  the  climate  moist  and  cool. 
Upon  our  first  day's  march  in  France,  a  journey 
of  only  nine  miles,  scores  of  men  were  overcome 
by  the  heat,  and  several  died.  The  suffering  of 
the  men  was  so  great,  in  fact,  that  a  halt  was 
made  earlier  than  had  been  planned,  and  we 
bivouacked  for  the  night  in  the  fields. 

Life  with  a  battalion  on  the  march  proceeds 
with  the  same  orderly  routine  as  when  in  bar- 
racks. Every  man  has  his  own  particular  em- 
ployment. Within  a  few  moments,  the  level 
pasture  land  was  converted  into  a  busy  com- 
munity of  a  thousand  inhabitants.  We  made 
serviceable  little  dwellings  by  lacing  together 
two  or  three  waterproof  ground-sheets  and 
erecting  them  on  sticks  or  tying  them  to  the 
wires  of  the  fences.  Latrines  and  refuse  pits 
were  dug  under  the  supervision  of  the  battalion 
medical  officer.    The  sick  were  cared  for  and 

52 


Ordered  Abroad 

justice  dispensed  with  the  same  thoroughness 
as  in  England.  The  day's  offenders  against 
discipHne  were  punished  with  what  seemed  to 
us  unusual  severity.  But  we  were  now  on 
active  service,  and  offenses  which  were  trivial 
in  England  were  looked  upon,  for  this  reason, 
in  the  light  of  serious  crimes. 

Daily  we  approached  a  little  nearer  to  our 
goal,  sleeping,  at  night,  in  the  open  fields  or  in 
the  lofts  of  great  rambling  farm-buildings.  Most 
of  these  places  had  been  used  for  soldiers'  bil- 
lets scores  of  times  before.  The  walls  were 
covered  with  the  names  of  men  and  regiments, 
and  there  were  many  penciled  suggestions  as 
to  the  best  place  to  go  for  a  basin  of  "coffay  oh 
lay,"  as  Tommy  called  it.  Every  roadside  cot- 
tage was,  in  fact,  Tommy's  tavern.  The  thrifty 
French  peasant  women  kept  open  house  for 
soldiers.  They  served  us  with  delicious  coffee 
and  thick  slices  of  French  bread,  for  the  very 
reasonable  sum  of  twopence.  They  were  always 
friendly  and  hospitable,  and  the  men,  in  turn, 
treated  them  with  courteous  and  kindly  respect. 
Tommy  was  a  great  favorite  with  the  French 
children.  They  climbed  on  his  lap  and  rifled  his 

S3 


Kitchener's  Mob 

pockets;  and  they  delighted  him  by  talking  in 
his  own  vernacular,  for  they  were  quick  to  pick 
up  English  words  and  phrases.  They  sang 
"Tipperary"  and  "Rule  Britannia,"  and  "God 
Save  the  King,"  so  quaintly  and  prettily  that 
the  men  kept  them  at  it  for  hours  at  a  time. 

And  so,  during  a  week  of  stifling  heat,  we 
moved  slowly  forward.  The  sound  of  the  guns 
grew  in  intensity,  from  a  faint  rumbling  to  a 
subdued  roar,  until  one  evening,  sitting  in  the 
open  windows  of  a  stable  loft,  we  saw  the  far- 
oflt  lightenings  of  bursting  shells,  and  the  trench 
rockets  soaring  skyward;  and  we  heard  bursts 
of  rifle  and  machine-gun  fire,  very  faintly,  like 
the  sound  of  chestnuts  popping  in  an  oven. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   PARAPET-ETIC   SCHOOL 

"We're  going  In  to-night." 

The  word  was  given  out  by  the  orderly  ser- 
geants at  four  in  the  afternoon.  At  4.03  every 
one  in  camp  had  heard  the  news.  Scores  of 
miniature  hand  laundries,  which  were  doing  a 
thriving  business  down  by  the  duck  pond,  Im- 
mediately shut  up  shop.  Damp  and  doubtfully 
clean  ration  bags,  towels,  and  shirts  which  were 
draped  along  the  fences,  were  hastily  gathered 
together  and  thrust  into  the  capacious  depths 
of  pack-sacks.  Members  of  the  battalion's  sport- 
ing contingent  broke  up  their  games  of  tup- 
penny brag  without  waiting  for  "just  one  more 
hand,"  an  unprecedented  thing.  The  makers  of 
war  ballads,  who  were  shouting  choruses  to  the 
merry  music  of  the  mouth-organ  band,  stopped 
in  the  midst  of  their  latest  composition,  and 
rushed  off  to  get  their  marching  order  together. 
At  4.10  every  one,  with  the  exception  of  the 
officers'  servants,  was  ready  to  move  off.  This, 
too,  was  unprecedented.  Never  before  had  we 

55 


Kitchener's  Mob 

made  haste  more  gladly  or  less  needfully,  but 
never  before  had  there  been  such  an  incentive 
to  haste.  We  were  going  into  the  trenches  for 
the  first  time. 

The  officers'  servants,  commonly  called  "bat- 
men," were  unfortunate  rankers  who,  in  mo- 
ments of  weakness,  had  sold  themselves  into 
slavery  for  half  a  crown  per  week.  The  bat- 
man's duty  is  to  make  tea  for  his  officer,  clean 
his  boots,  wash  his  clothes,  tuck  him  into  bed 
at  night,  and  make  himself  useful  generally. 
The  real  test  of  a  good  batman,  however,  is  his 
carrying  capacity.  In  addition  to  his  own  heavy- 
burden  he  must  carry  various  articles  belonging 
to  his  officer:  enameled  wash-basins,  rubber 
boots,  bottles  of  Apollinaris  water,  service  edi- 
tions of  the  modern  English  poets  and  novelists, 
spirit  lamps,  packages  of  food,  boxes  of  cigars 
and  cigarettes,  —  in  fact,  all  of  his  personal 
luggage  which  is  in  excess  of  the  allotted  thirty- 
five  pounds  which  is  carried  on  the  battalion 
transport  wagons. 

On  this  epoch-marking  day,  even  the  officers' 
servants  were  punctual.  When  the  order, 
"Packs  on!  Fall  in!"  was  given,  not  a  man  was 

56 


The  Parapet-etic  School 

missing.  Every  one  was  in  harness,  standing 
silently,  expectantly,  in  his  place. 

"Charge  magazines!" 

The  bolts  clicked  open  with  the  sound  of  one 
as  we  loaded  our  rifles  with  ball  ammunition. 
Five  long  shiny  cartridges  were  slipped  down 
the  charger  guide  into  the  magazine,  and  the 
cut-off  closed. 

"Move  off  in  column  of  route,  *A'  company 
leadingl" 

We  swung  into  the  country  road  in  the  gather- 
ing twilight,  and  turned  sharply  to  our  left  at 
the  crossroad  where  the  signboard  read,  "To 
the  Firing-Line.  For  the  Use  of  the  Military 
Only." 

Coming  into  the  trenches  for  the  first  time 
when  the  deadlock  along  the  western  front  had 
become  seemingly  unbreakable,  we  reaped  the 
benefit  of  the  experience  of  the  gallant  little 
remnant  of  the  first  British  Expeditionary 
Force.  After  the  retreat  from  Mons,  they  had 
dug  themselves  in  and  were  holding  tenaciously 
on,  awaiting  the  long-heralded  arrival  of 
Kitchener's  Mob.  As  the  units  of  the  new 
armies  arrived  in  France,  they  were  sent  into 

57 


Kitchener's  Mob 

the  trenches  for  twenty-four  hours'  instruction 
in  trench  warfare,  with  a  battaHon  of  regulars. 
This  one-day  course  in  trench  fighting  is  pre- 
Hminary  to  fitting  new  troops  into  their  own 
particular  sectors  along  the  front.  The  face- 
tious subalterns  called  it  "The  Parapet-etic 
School."  Months  later,  we  ourselves  became 
members  of  the  faculty,  but  on  this  first  occa- 
sion we  were  marching  up  as  the  meekest  of 
undergraduates. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  we  entered  the  deso- 
late belt  of  country  known  as  the  "fire  zone." 
Pipes  and  cigarettes  were  put  out  and  talking 
ceased.  We  extended  to  groups  of  platoons  in 
fours,  at  one  hundred  paces  interval,  each 
platoon  keeping  in  touch  with  the  one  in  front 
by  means  of  connecting  files.  We  passed  rows 
of  ruined  cottages  where  only  the  scent  of  the 
roses  in  neglected  little  front  gardens  reminded 
one  of  the  home-loving  people  who  had  lived 
there  in  happier  days.  Dim  lights  streamed 
through  chinks  and  crannies  in  the  walls.  Now 
and  then  blanket  coverings  would  be  lifted  from 
apertures  that  had  been  windows  or  doors,  and 
we  would  see  bright  fires  blazing  in  the  middle 

58 


The  Parapet-etic  School 

of  brick  kitchen  floors,  and  groups  of  men  sit- 
ting about  them  luxuriously  sipping  tea  from 
steaming  canteens.  They  were  laughing  and 
talking  and  singing  songs  in  loud,  boisterous 
voices  which  contrasted  strangely  with  our 
timid  noiselessness.  I  was  marching  with  one 
of  the  trench  guides  who  had  been  sent  back 
to  pilot  us  to  our  position.  I  asked  him  if  the 
Tommies  in  the  houses  were  not  in  danger  of 
being  heard  by  the  enemy.  He  laughed  up- 
roariously at  this,  whereupon  one  of  our  officers, 
a  little  second  lieutenant,  turned  and  hissed  in 
melodramatic  undertones,  "Silence  in  the  ranks 
there!  Where  do  you  think  you  are ! "  Officers 
and  men,  we  were  new  to  the  game  then,  and 
we  held  rather  exaggerated  notions  as  to  the 
amount  of  care  to  be  observed  in  moving  up  to 
the  trenches. 

"Blimy,  son!"  whispered  the  trench  guide, 
"you  might  think  we  was  only  a  couple  o' 
'unnerd  yards  away  from  Fritzie's  trenches! 
We're  a  good  two  an'  a  'arf  miles  back  'ere. 
All  right  to  be  careful  arter  you  gets  closer  up; 
but  they 's  no  use  w'isperin'  w'en  you  ain't  even 
in  rifle  range." 

59 


Kitchener*s  Mob 

With  lights,  of  course,  it  was  a  different  mat- 
ter altogether.  Can't  be  too  careful  about  giv- 
ing the  enemy  artillery  an  aiming  mark.  This 
was  the  reason  all  the  doors  and  windows  of  the 
ruined  cottages  were  so  carefully  blanketed. 

"  Let  old  Fritzie  see  a  light,  — '  'Ello ! '  'e  says, 
'blokes  in  billets!'  an'  over  comes  a  'arf-dozen 
shells  knockin'  you  all  to  blazes." 

As  we  came  within  the  range  of  rifle  fire,  we 
again  changed  our  formation,  and  marched  in 
single  file  along  the  edge  of  the  road.  The  sharp 
crack!  crack!  of  small  arms  now  sounded  with 
vicious  and  ominous  distinctness.  We  heard 
the  melancholy  song  of  the  ricochets  and  spent 
bullets  as  they  whirled  in  a  wide  arc,  high  over 
our  heads,  and  occasionally  the  less  pleasing 
phtt!  phtt!  of  those  speeding  straight  from  the 
muzzle  of  a  German  rifle.  We  breathed  more 
freely  when  we  entered  the  communication 
trench  in  the  center  of  a  little  thicket,  a  mile  or 
more  back  of  the  first-line  trenches. 

We  wound  in  and  out  of  what  appeared  in  the 
darkness  to  be  a  hopeless  labyrinth  of  earth- 
works. Cross-streets  and  alleys  led  off  in  every 
direction.   All  along  the  way  we  had  glimpses 

60 


The  Parapet-etic  School 

of  dugouts  lighted  by  candles,  the  doorways 
carefully  concealed  with  blankets  or  pieces  of 
old  sacking.  Groups  of  Tommies,  in  comfort- 
able nooks  and  corners,  were  boiling  tea  or  fry- 
ing bacon  over  little  stoves  made  of  old  iron 
buckets  or  biscuit  tins. 

I  marveled  at  the  skill  of  our  trench  guide 
who  went  confidently  on  in  the  darkness,  with 
scarcely  a  pause.  At  length,  after  a  winding, 
zigzag  journey,  we  arrived  at  our  trench  where 
we  met  the  Gloucesters. 

There  is  n't  one  of  us  who  has  n't  a  warm 
spot  in  his  heart  for  the  Gloucesters :  they  wel- 
comed us  so  heartily  and  initiated  us  into  all 
the  mysteries  of  trench  etiquette  and  trench 
tradition.  We  were,  at  best,  but  amateur  Tom- 
mies. In  them  I  recognized  the  lineal  descend- 
ants of  the  line  Atkins ;  men  whose  grandfathers 
had  fought  in  the  Crimea,  and  whose  fathers  in 
Indian  mutinies.  They  were  the  fighting  sons 
of  fighting  sires,  and  they  taught  us  more  of 
life  in  the  trenches,  in  twenty-four  hours,  than 
we  had  learned  during  nine  months  of  training 
in  England.  An  infantryman  of  my  company 
has  a  very  kindly  feeling  toward  one  of  them 

6i 


Kitchener's  Mob 

who  probably  saved  his  life  before  we  had  been 
in  the  trenches  five  minutes.  Our  first  question 
was,  of  course,  "How  far  is  it  to  the  German 
lines?"  and  In  his  eagerness  to  see,  my  fellow 
Tommy  jumped  up  on  the  firing-bench  for  a 
look,  with  a  lighted  cigarette  In  his  mouth.  He 
was  pulled  down  Into  the  trench  just  as  a  rifle 
cracked  and  a  bullet  went  zing-g-g  from  the 
parapet  precisely  where  he  had  been  stand- 
ing. Then  the  Gloucester  gave  him  a  friendly 
little  lecture  which  none  of  us  afterward  for- 
got. 

"Now,  look  'ere,  son!  Never  get  up  for  a 
squint  at  Fritz  with  a  fag  on!  'E's  got  every 
sandbag  along  this  parapet  numbered,  same  as 
we've  got  'Is.  'Is  snipers  Is  a-layin'  fer  us  same 
as  ours  is  a-layin'  fer  'Im."  Then,  turning  to 
the  rest  of  us,  "Now,  we  ain't  arskin'  to  'ave 
no  burial  parties.  But  If  any  of  you  blokes 
wants  to  be  the  stiff,  stand  up  w'ere  this  guy 
lit  the  gas." 

There  were  n't  any  takers,  and  a  moment 
later  another  bullet  struck  a  sandbag  In  the 
same  spot. 

"See?   'E  spotted  you.    'E'll  keep  a-pottin' 

62 


The  Parapet-etic  School 

away  at  that  place  for  an  hour,  'opin'  to  catch 
you  lookin'  over  again.  Less  see  if  we  can  find 
'im.  Give  us  that  biscuit  tin,  'Enery." 

Then  we  learned  the  biscuit-tin-finder  trick 
for  locating  snipers.  It's  only  approximate, 
of  course,  but  it  gives  a  pretty  good  hint  at  the 
direction  from  which  the  shots  come.  It  does  n't 
work  in  the  daytime,  for  a  sniper  is  too  clever 
to  fire  at  it.  But  a  biscuit  tin,  set  on  the  parapet 
at  night  in  a  badly  sniped  position,  is  almost 
certain  to  be  hit.  The  angle  from  which  the 
shots  come  is  shown  by  the  jagged  edges  of  tin 
around  the  bullet  holes.  Then,  as  the  Gloucester 
said,  "Give  'im  a  nice  little  April  shower  out  o' 
yer  machine  gun  in  that  direction.  You  may 
fetch  'im.  But  if  you  don't,  'e  won't  bother  you 
no  more  fer  an  hour  or  two." 

We  learned  how  orders  are  passed  down  the 
line,  from  sentry  to  sentry,  quietly,  and  with 
the  speed  of  a  man  running.  We  learned  how 
the  sentries  are  posted  and  their  duties.  We 
saw  the  intricate  mazes  of  telephone  wires,  and 
the  men  of  the  signaling  corps  at  their  posts  in 
the  trenches,  in  communication  with  brigade, 
divisional,  and  army  corps  headquarters.   We 

63 


Kitchener's  Mob 

learned  how  to  "sleep"  five  men  In  a  four-by- 
six  dugout;  and,  when  there  are  no  dugouts, 
how  to  hunch  up  on  the  firing-benches  with  our 
waterproof  sheets  over  our  heads,  and  doze, 
with  our  knees  for  a  pillow.  We  learned  the 
order  of  precedence  for  troops  in  the  communi- 
cation trenches. 

"Never  forget  that!  Outgoin'  troops  'as  the 
right  o'  way.  They  ain't  'ad  no  rest,  an'  they're 
all  slathered  in  mud,  likely,  an'  dead  beat  fer 
sleep.  Incomin'  troops  is  fresh,  an'  they  stands 
to  one  side  to  let  the  others  pass." 

We  saw  the  listening  patrols  go  out  at  night, 
through  the  underground  passage  which  leads 
to  the  far  side  of  the  barbed-wire  entangle- 
ments. From  there  they  creep  far  out  between 
the  opposing  lines  of  trenches,  to  keep  watch 
upon  the  movements  of  the  enemy,  and  to 
report  the  presence  of  his  working  parties  or 
patrols.  This  Is  dangerous,  nerve-trying  work, 
for  the  men  sent  out  upon  it  are  exposed  not 
only  to  the  shots  of  the  enemy,  but  to  the  wild 
shots  of  their  own  comrades  as  well.  I  saw  one 
patrol  come  in  just  before  dawn.  One  of  the 
men  brought  with  him  a  piece  of  barbed  wire, 

64 


The  Parapet-etic  School 

clipped  from  the  German  entanglements  two 
hundred  and  fifty  yards  away. 

"Taffy,  'ave  a  look  at  this  'ere.  Three-ply 
stuff  wot  you  can  'ardly  get  yer  nippers  through. 
'Ad  to  saw  an'  saw,  an'  w'en  I  all  but  'ad  it, 
lummy!  if  they  did  n't  send  up  a  rocket  wot 
bleedin'  near  'it  me  in  the  'ead!" 

"Tyke  it  to  Captain  Stevens.  I  'card  'im  s'y 
'e's  wan  tin'  a  bit  to  show  to  one  of  the  artill'ry 
blokes.  'E's  got  a  bet  on  with  'im  that  it's 
three-ply  wire.  Now,  don't  forget,  Bobby! 
Touch  'im  fer  a  couple  o'  packets  o'  fags!" 

I  was  tremendously  interested.  At  that  time 
it  seemed  incredible  to  me  that  men  crawled 
over  to  the  German  lines  in  this  manner  and 
clipped  pieces  of  German  wire  for  souvenirs. 

"Did  you  hear  anything.?"  I  asked  him. 

"'Eard  a  flute  some  Fritzie  was  a-playin'  of. 
An'  you  ought  to  'ave  'card  'em  a-singin'! 
Doleful  as  'ell!" 

Several  men  were  killed  and  wounded  during 
the  night.  One  of  them  was  a  sentry  with  whom 
I  had  been  talking  only  a  few  moments  before. 
He  was  standing  on  the  firing-bench  looking  out 
into  the  darkness,  when  he  fell  back  into  the 

6s 


Kitchener's  Mob 

trench  without  a  cry.  It  was  a  terrible  wound. 
I  would  not  have  believed  that  a  bullet  could 
so  horribly  disfigure  one.  He  was  given  first 
aid  by  the  light  of  a  candle;  but  it  was  useless. 
Silently  his  comrades  removed  his  identifica- 
tion disk  and  wrapped  him  in  a  blanket.  "Poor 
old  Walt!"  they  said.  An  hour  later. he  was 
buried  in  a  shell  hole  at  the  back  of  the  trench. 
One  thing  we  learned  during  our  first  night 
in  the  trenches  was  of  the  very  first  importance. 
And  that  was,  respect  for  our  enemies.  We 
came  from  England  full  of  absurd  newspaper 
tales  about  the  German  soldier's  inferiority  as 
a  fighting  man.  We  had  read  that  he  was  a 
wretched  marksman :  he  would  not  stand  up  to 
the  bayonet :  whenever  opportunity  offered  he 
crept  over  and  gave  himself  up :  he  was  poorly 
fed  and  clothed  and  was  so  weary  of  the  war 
that  his  officers  had  to  drive  him  to  fight,  at  the 
muzzles  of  their  revolvers.  We  thought  him 
almost  beneath  contempt.  We  were  convinced 
in  a  night  that  we  had  greatly  underestimated 
his  abilities  as  a  marksman.  As  for  his  all-round 
inferiority  as  a  fighting  man,  one  of  the 
Gloucesters  put  it  rather  well :  — 

66 


The  Parapet-etic  School 


i'i-\ 


'Ere!  If  the  Germans  is  so  bloomin'  rotten, 
'ow  is  it  we  ain't  a-fightin'  'em  sommers  along 
the  Rhine,  or  in  Austry-Hungry?  No,  they 
ain't  a-firin'  wild,  I  give  you  my  word!  Not 
around  this  part  o'  France  they  ain't!  Wot  do 
you  s'y,  Jerry?" 

Jerry  made  a  most  illuminating  contribution 
to  the  discussion  of  Fritz  as  a  fighting  man :  — ■ 

"I  '11  tell  you  wot!  If  ever  I  gets  through  this 
'ere  war;  if  I  'as  the  luck  to  go  'ome  again,  with 
me  eyesight,  I'll  never  feel  syfe  w'en  I  sees  a 
Fritzie,  unless  I  'm  a-lookin'  at  'im  through  me 
periscope  from  be'ind  a  bit  o'  cover." 

How  am  I  to  give  a  really  vivid  picture  of 
trench  life  as  I  saw  it  for  the  first  time,  how 
make  it  live  for  others,  when  I  remember  that 
the  many  descriptive  accounts  I  had  read  of  it 
in  England  did  not  in  the  least  visualize  it  for 
me?  I  watched  the  rockets  rising  from  the 
German  lines,  watched  them  burst  into  points 
of  light,  over  the  devastated  strip  of  country 
called  "No-Man's-Land"  and  drift  slowly 
down.  And  I  watched  the  charitable  shadows 
rush  back  like  the  very  wind  of  darkness.  The 

67 


Kitchener's  Mob 

desolate  landscape  emerged  from  the  gloom 
and  receded  again,  like  a  series  of  pictures 
thrown  upon  a  screen.  All  of  this  was  so  new, 
so  terrible,  I  doubted  its  reality.  Indeed,  I 
doubted  my  own  identity,  as  one  does  at  times 
when  brought  face  to  face  with  some  experiences 
which  cannot  be  compared  with  past  experiences 
or  even  measured  by  them.  I  groped  darkly, 
for  some  new  truth  which  was  flickering  just 
beyond  the  border  of  consciousness.  But  I  was 
so  blinded  by  the  glamour  of  the  adventure  that 
it  did  not  come  to  me  then.  Later  I  understood. 
It  was  my  first  glimmering  realization  of  the 
tremendous  sadness,  the  awful  futility  of  war. 


CHAPTER  VI 

PRIVATE   HOLLOWAY,    PROFESSOR  OF   HYGIENE 

The  following  morning  we  wandered  through 
the  trenches  listening  to  the  learned  discourse 
of  the  genial  professors  of  the  Parapet-etic 
School,  storing  up  much  useful  information 
for  future  reference.  I  made  a  serious  blunder 
when  I  asked  one  of  them  a  question  about 
Ypres,  for  I  pronounced  the  name  French 
fashion,  which  put  me  under  suspicion  as  a 
"swanker." 

"Don't  try  to  come  it,  son,"  he  said.  "S'y 
*  Wipers.'  That's  wot  we  calls  it.'* 

Henceforth  it  was  "Wipers"  for  me,  although 
I  learned  that  "Eeps"  and  "Yipps"  are  sanc- 
tioned by  some  trench  authorities.  I  made  no 
further  mistakes  of  this  nature,  and  by  keep- 
ing silent  about  the  names  of  the  towns  and 
villages  along  our  front,  I  soon  learned  the  ac- 
cepted pronunciation  of  all  of  them.  Armen- 
tieres  is  called  "Armenteers";  Balleul,  "Bally- 
all";  Hazebrouck,  "Hazy-Brook";  and  what 

69 


Kitchener's  Mob 

more  natural   than   "Plug-Street,"  Atklnsese 
for  Ploegsteert? 

As  was  the  case  wherever  I  went,  my  accent 
betrayed  my  American  birth;  and  again,  as  an 
American  Expeditionary  Force  of  one,  I  was 
shown  many  favors.  Private  Shorty  Holloway, 
upon  learning  that  I  was  a  "Yank,"  offered  to 
tell  me  "every  bloomin'  thing  about  the 
trenches  that  a  bloke  needs  to  know."  I  was 
only  too  glad  to  place  myself  under  his  in- 
struction. 

"Right  you  are!"  said  Shorty;  "now,  sit 
down  'ere  w'ile  I'm  goin'  over  me  shirt,  an' 
arsk  me  anything  yer  a  mind  to."  I  began  im- 
mediately by  asking  him  what  he  meant  by 
going  over"  his  shirt. 

Blimy!  You  are  new  to  this  game,  mate! 
You  mean  to  s'y  you  ain't  got  any  graybacks!" 

I  confessed  shamefacedly  that  I  had  not.  He 
stripped  to  the  waist,  turned  his  shirt  wrong 
side  out,  and  laid  it  upon  his  knee. 

"'Ave  a  look,"  he  said  proudly. 

The  less  said  about  my  discoveries  the  better 
for  the  fastidiously  minded.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that  I  made  my  first  acquaintance  with  mem- 

70 


I 


Private  Holloway 

bers  of  a  British  Expeditionary  Force  which  is 
not  mentioned  in  official  communiques. 

"Trench  pets,"  said  Shorty.  Then  he  told 
me  that  they  were  not  all  graybacks.  There  is 
a  great  variety  of  species,  but  they  all  belong  to 
the  same  parasitical  family,  and  wage  a  non-dis- 
criminating warfare  upon  the  soldiery  on  both 
sides  of  No-man's-Land.  Germans,  British, 
French,  Belgians  alike  were  their  victims. 

"You'll  soon  'ave  plenty,"  he  said  reassur- 
ingly; "I  give  you  about  a  week  to  get  covered 
with  'em.  Now,  wot  you  want  to  do  is  this: 
always  'ave  an  extra  shirt  in  yer  pack.  Don't 
be  a  bloomin'  ass  an'  sell  it  fer  a  packet  o'  fags 
like  I  did !  An'  the  next  time  you  writes  to  Eng- 
land, get  some  one  to  send  you  out  some  Keat- 
ings"  —  he  displayed  a  box  of  grayish-colored 
powder.  "It  won't  kill  'em,  mind  you!  They 
ain't  nothin'  but  fire  that'll  kill  'em.  But 
Keatings  tykes  all  the  ginger  out  o'  'em.  They 
ain't  near  so  lively  arter  you  strafe  'em  with 
this  'ere  powder." 

I  remembered  Shorty's  advice  later  when  I 
became  a  reluctant  host  to  a  prolific  colony  of 
graybacks.    For  nearly  six  months  I  was  never 

71 


Kitchener's  Mob 

without  a  box  of  Keatlngs,  and  I  was  never 
without  the  need  for  it. 

Barbed  wire  had  a  new  and  terrible  signifi- 
cance for  me  from  the  first  day  which  we  spent 
in  the  trenches.  I  could  more  readily  under- 
stand why  there  had  been  so  long  a  deadlock  on 
the  western  front.  The  entanglements  in  front 
of  the  first  line  of  trenches  were  from  fifteen  to 
twenty  yards  wide,  the  wires  being  twisted 
from  post  to  post  in  such  a  hopeless  jumble  that 
no  man  could  possibly  get  through  them  under 
fire.  The  posts  were  set  firmly  in  the  ground, 
but  there  were  movable  segments,  every  fifty 
or  sixty  yards,  which  could  be  put  to  one  side 
in  case  an  attack  was  to  be  launched  against 
the  German  lines. 

At  certain  positions  there  were  what  ap- 
peared to  be  openings  through  the  wire,  but 
these  were  nothing  less  than  man-traps  which 
have  been  found  serviceable  in  case  of  an  enemy 
attack.  In  an  assault  men  follow  the  line  of 
least  resistance  when  they  reach  the  barbed 
wire.  These  apparent  openings  are  V-shaped, 
with  the  open  end  toward  the  enemy.  The 
attacking  troops  think  they  see  a  clear  passage- 

72 


Private  Holloway 

way.  They  rush  Into  the  trap,  and  when  It  Is 
filled  with  struggling  men,  machine  guns  are 
turned  upon  them,  and,  as  Shorty  said,  "You 
got  'em  cold." 

That,  at  least,  was  the  presumption.  Prac- 
tically, man-traps  were  not  always  a  success. 
The  Intensive  bombardments  which  precede  in- 
fantry attacks  play  havoc  with  entanglements, 
but  there  Is  always  a  chance  of  the  destruc- 
tion being  incomplete,  as  upon  one  occasion 
farther  north,  where.  Shorty  told  me,  a  man- 
trap caught  a  whole  platoon  of  Germans  "dead 
to  rights." 

But  this  is  wot  gives  you  the  pip,"  he  said. 

Ere  we  got  three  lines  of  trenches,  all  of  'em 
wired  up  so  that  a  rat  could  n't  get  through 
without  scratchin'  hisself  to  death.  Fritzie's 
got  better  wire  than  wot  we  'ave,  an'  more  of  it. 
An'  'e's  got  more  machine  guns,  more  artill'ry, 
more  shells.  They  ain't  any  little  old  man- 
killer  ever  Invented  wot  they  'ave  n't  got  more 
of  than  we  'ave.  An'  at  'ome  they're  a-s'yin', 
'W'y  don't  they  get  on  with  it?  W'y  don't 
they  smash  through?'  Let  some  of  'em  come 
out  'ere  an'  'ave  a  try!  That's  all  I  got  to  s'y." 

73 


Kitchener's  Mob 

I  did  n't  tell  Shorty  that  I  had  been,  not  ex- 
actly an  armchair  critic,  but  at  least  a  barrack- 
room  critic  in  England.  I  had  wondered  why 
British  and  French  troops  had  failed  to  smash 
through.  A  few  weeks  in  the  trenches  gave  me 
a  new  viewpoint.  I  could  only  wonder  at  the 
magnificent  fighting  qualities  of  soldiers  who 
had  held  their  own  so  effectively  against  armies 
equipped  and  armed  and  munitioned  as  the 
Germans  were. 

After  he  had  finished  drugging  his  trench 
pets.  Shorty  and  I  made  a  tour  of  the  trenches. 
I  was  much  surprised  at  seeing  how  clean  and 
comfortable  they  can  be  kept  in  pleasant  sum- 
mer weather.  Men  were  busily  at  work  sweep- 
ing up  the  walks,  collecting  the  rubbish,  which 
was  put  into  sandbags  hung  on  pegs  at  intervals 
along  the  fire  trench.  At  night  the  refuse  was 
taken  back  of  the  trenches  and  buried.  Most 
of  this  work  devolved  upon  the  pioneers  whose 
business  it  was  to  keep  the  trenches  sanitary. 

The  fire  trench  was  built  in  much  the  same 
way  as  those  which  we  had  made  during  our 
training  in  England.  In  pattern  it  was  some- 
thing like  a  tesselated  border.   For  the  space  of 

74 


Private  Holloway 

five  yards  it  ran  straight,  then  it  turned  at  right 
angles  around  a  traverse  of  soHd  earth  six  feet 
square,  then  straight  again  for  another  five 
yards,  then  around  another  traverse,  and  so 
throughout  the  length  of  the  line.  Each  five- 
yard  segment,  which  is  called  a  "bay,"  offered 
firing  room  for  five  men.  The  traverses,  of 
course,  were  for  the  purpose  of  preventing  en- 
filade fire.  They  also  limited  the  execution  which 
might  be  done  by  one  shell.  Even  so  they  were 
not  an  unmixed  blessing,  for  they  were  always 
in  the  way  when  you  wanted  to  get  anywhere 
in  a  hurry. 

"An'  you  are  in  a  'urry  w'en  you  sees  a  Min- 
nie [Minnenwerfer]  comin'  your  w'y-  But  you 
gets  trench  legs  arter  a  w'ile.  It'll  be  a  funny 
sight  to  see  blokes  walkin'  along  the  street  in 
Lunnon  w'en  the  war's  over.  They'll  be  so 
used  to  dodgin'  in  an'  out  o'  traverses  they 
won't  be  able  to  go  in  a  straight  line." 

As  we  walked  through  the  firing-line  trenches, 
I  could  quite  understand  the  possibility  of 
one's  acquiring  trench  legs.  Five  paces  for- 
ward, two  to  the  right,  two  to  the  left,  two  to 
the  left  again,  then  five  to  the  right,  and  so  on 

75 


Kitchener's  Mob 

to  Switzerland.  Shorty  was  of  the  opinion  that 
one  could  enter  the  trenches  on  the  Channel 
coast  and  walk  through  to  the  Alps  without 
once  coming  out  on  top  of  the  ground.  I  am 
not  in  a  position  either  to  affirm  or  to  question 
this  statement.  My  own  experience  was  con- 
fined to  that  part  of  the  British  front  which  lies 
between  Messines  in  Belgium  and  Loos  in 
France.  There,  certainly,  one  could  walk  for 
miles,  through  an  intricate  maze  of  continuous 
underground  passages. 

But  the  firing-line  trench  was  neither  a  traf- 
fic route  nor  a  promenade.  The  great  bulk  of 
inter-trench  business  passed  through  the  travel- 
ing trench,  about  fifteen  yards  in  rear  of  the 
fire  trench  and  running  parallel  to  it.  The  two 
were  connected  by  many  passageways,  the  chief 
difference  between  them  being  that  the  fire 
trench  was  the  business  district,  while  the  trav- 
eling trench  was  primarily  residential.  Along 
the  latter  were  built  most  of  the  dugouts, 
lavatories,  and  trench  kitchens.  The  sleeping 
quarters  for  the  men  were  not  very  elaborate. 
Recesses  were  made  in  the  wall  of  the  trench 
about  two  feet  above  the  floor.   They  were  not 

76 


Private  Holloway 

more  than  three  feet  high,  so  that  one  had  to 
crawl  in  head  first  when  going  to  bed.  They 
were  partitioned  in  the  middle,  and  were  sup- 
posed to  offer  accommodation  for  four  men, 
two  on  each  side.  But,  as  Shorty  said,  every- 
thing depended  on  the  ration  allowance.  Two 
men  who  had  eaten  to  repletion  could  not 
hope  to  occupy  the  same  apartment.  One  had 
a  choice  of  going  to  bed  hungry  or  of  eating 
heartily  and  sleeping  outside  on  the  firing- 
bench. 

"'Ere's  a  funny  thing,"  he  said.  "W'y  do 
you  suppose  they  makes  the  dugouts  open  at 
one  end.^" 

I  had  no  explanation  to  offer. 

"Crawl  inside  an'  I'll  show  you." 

I  stood  my  rifle  against  the  side  of  the  trench 
and  crept  In. 

"Now,  yer  supposed  to  be  asleep,"  said 
Shorty,  and  with  that  he  gave  me  a  whack  on 
the  soles  of  my  boots  with  his  entrenching  tool 
handle.   I  can  still  feel  the  pain  of  the  blow. 

"Stand  to!  Wyke  up  'ere!  Stand  to!"  he 
shouted,  and  gave  me  another  resounding  wal- 
lop. 

77 


Kitchener's  Mob 

I  backed  out  in  all  haste. 

"Get  the  idea?  That's  'ow  they  wykes  you 
up  at  stand-to,  or  w'en  your  turn  comes  fer 
sentry.   Not  bad,  wot?" 

I  said  that  it  all  depended  on  whether  one 
was  doing  the  waking  or  the  sleeping,  and  that, 
for  my  part,  when  sleeping,  I  would  lie  with  my 
head  out. 

"You  would  n't  if  you  belonged  to  our  lot. 
They'd  give  it  to  you  on  the  napper  just  as 
quick  as  'it  you  on  the  feet.  You  ain't  on  to  the 
game,  that's  all.   Let  me  show  you  suthin'." 

He  crept  inside  and  drew  his  knees  up  to  his 
chest  so  that  his  feet  were  well  out  of  reach. 
At  his  suggestion  I  tried  to  use  the  active 
service  alarm  clock  on  him,  but  there  was  not 
room  enough  in  which  to  wield  it.  My  feet 
were  tingling  from  the  effect  of  his  blows,  and  I 
felt  that  the  reputation  for  resourcefulness  of 
Kitchener's  Mob  was  at  stake.  In  a  moment 
of  inspiration  I  seized  my  rifle,  gave  him  a  dig 
in  the  shins  with  the  butt,  and  shouted,  "Stand 
to.  Shorty!"  He  came  out  rubbing  his  leg  rue- 
fully. 

"You  got  the  idea,  mate,"  he  said.   "That's 

78 


Private  Holloway 

just  wot  they  does  w'en  you  tries  to  double- 
cross  'em  by  pullin'  yer  feet  in.  I  ain't  sure 
w'ere  I  likes  it  best,  on  the  shins  or  on  the  feet." 

This  explanation  of  the  reason  for  building 
three-sided  dugouts,  while  not,  of  course,  the 
true  one,  was  none  the  less  interesting.  And 
certainly,  the  task  of  arousing  sleeping  men 
for  sentry  duty  was  greatly  facilitated  with 
rows  of  protruding  boot  soles  "simply  arskin' 
to  be  'it,"  as  Shorty  put  it. 

All  of  the  dugouts  for  privates  and  N.C.O.s 
were  of  equal  size  and  built  on  the  same  model, 
the  reason  being  that  the  walls  and  floors, 
which  were  made  of  wood,  and  the  roofs,  which 
were  of  corrugated  iron,  were  put  together  in 
sections  at  the  headquarters  of  the  Royal  En- 
gineers, who  superintended  all  the  work  of 
trench  construction.  The  material  was  brought 
up  at  night  ready  to  be  fitted  into  excavations. 
Furthermore,  with  thousands  of  men  to  house 
within  a  very  limited  area,  space  was  a  most 
important  consideration.  There  was  no  room 
for  indulging  individual  tastes  in  dugout  archi- 
tecture. The  roofs  were  covered  with  from 
three  to  four  feet  of  earth,  which  made  them 

79 


Kitchener's  Mob 

proof  against  shrapnel  or  shell  splinters.  In 
case  of  a  heavy  bombardment  with  high  ex- 
plosives, the  men  took  shelter  in  deep  and  nar- 
row "slip  trenches."  These  were  blind  alley- 
ways leading  off  from  the  traveling  trench,  with 
room  for  from  ten  to  fifteen  men  in  each.  At 
this  part  of  the  line  there  were  none  of  the  very 
deep  shell-proof  shelters,  from  fifteen  to  twenty 
feet  below  the  surface  of  the  ground,  of  which 
I  had  read.  Most  of  the  men  seemed  to  be  glad 
of  this.  They  preferred  taking  their  chances  in 
an  open  trench  during  heavy  shell  fire. 

Realists  and  Romanticists  lived  side  by  side 
in  the  traveling  trench.  "My  Little  Gray 
Home  in  the  West"  was  the  modest  legend  over 
one  apartment.  The  "Ritz  Carlton"  was  next 
door  to  "The  Rats'  Retreat,"  with  "Vermin 
Villa"  next  door  but  one.  "The  Suicide  Club" 
was  the  suburban  residence  of  some  members  of 
the  bombing  squad.  I  remarked  that  the  bomb- 
ers seemed  to  take  rather  a  pessimistic  view  of 
their  profession,  whereupon  Shorty  told  me 
that  if  there  were  any  men  slated  for  the  Order 
of  the  Wooden  Cross,  the  bombers  were  those 
unfortunate  ones.   In  an  assault  they  were  first 

80 


Private  Hollo  way 

at  the  enemy's  position.  They  had  dangerous 
work  to  do  even  on  the  quietest  of  days.  But 
theirs  was  a  post  of  honor,  and  no  one  of  them 
but  was  proud  of  his  membership  in  the  Suicide 
Club. 

The  officers'  quarters  were  on  a  much  more 
generous  and  elaborate  scale  than  those  of  the 
men.  This  I  gathered  from  Shorty's  description 
of  them,  for  I  saw  only  the  exteriors  as  we 
passed  along  the  trench.  Those  for  platoon  and 
company  commanders  were  built  along  the 
traveling  trench.  The  colonel,  major,  and  adju- 
tant lived  in  a  luxurious  palace,  about  fifty 
yards  down  a  communication  trench.  Near  it 
was  the  officers'  mess,  a  cafe  de  luxe  with  glass 
panels  in  the  door,  a  cooking  stove,  a  long 
wooden  table,  chairs,  —  everything,  in  fact, 
but  hot  and  cold  running  water. 

*'You  know,"  said  Shorty,  "the  officers 
thinks  they  'as  to  rough  it,  but  they  got  it  soft, 
I'm  tellln'  you!  Wooden  bunks  to  sleep  in, 
batmen  to  bring  'em  'ot  water  fer  shavin'  in  the 
mornin',  all  the  fags  they  wants,  —  Blimy,  I 
wonder  wot  they  calls  livln'  'Igh?" 

I  agreed  that  in  so  far  as  living  quarters  are 

8i 


Kitchener's  Mob 

concerned,  they  were  roughing  It  under  very 
pleasant  circumstances.  However,  they  were 
not  always  so  fortunate,  as  later  experience 
proved.  Here  there  had  been  little  serious  fight- 
ing for  months  and  the  trenches  were  at  their 
best.  Elsewhere  the  officers'  dugouts  were  often 
but  little  better  than  those  of  the  men. 

The  first-line  trenches  were  connected  with 
two  lines  of  support  or  reserve  trenches  built  in 
precisely  the  same  fashion,  and  each  heavily 
wired.  The  communication  trenches  which 
joined  them  were  from  seven  to  eight  feet  deep 
and  wide  enough  to  permit  the  convenient  pas- 
sage of  Incoming  and  outgoing  troops,  and  the 
transport  of  the  wounded  back  to  the  field 
dressing  stations.  From  the  last  reserve  line 
they  wound  on  backward  through  the  fields 
until  troops  might  leave  them  well  out  of  range 
of  rifle  fire.  Under  Shorty's  guidance  I  saw  the 
field  dressing  stations,  the  dugouts  for  the  re- 
serve ammunition  supply  and  the  stores  of 
bombs  and  hand  grenades,  battalion  and  bri- 
gade trench  headquarters.  We  wandered  from 
one  part  of  the  line  to  another  through  trenches, 
all  of  which  were  kept  amazingly  neat  and  clean. 

82 


Private  Holl 


oway 


The  walls  were  stayed  with  fine-mesh  wire  to 
hold  the  earth  in  place.  The  floors  were  cov- 
ered with  board  walks  carefully  laid  over  the 
drains,  which  ran  along  the  center  of  the  trench 
and  emptied  into  deep  wells,  built  in  recesses  in 
the  walls.  I  felt  very  much  encouraged  when  I 
saw  the  careful  provisions  for  sanitation  and 
drainage.  On  a  fine  June  morning  it  seemed 
probable  that  living  in  ditches  was  not  to  be 
so  unpleasant  as  I  had  imagined  it.  Shorty 
listened  to  my  comments  with  a  smile. 

"Don't  pat  yerself  on  the  back  yet  a  w'ile, 
mate,"  he  said.  "They  looks  right  enough  now, 
but  wite  till  you've  seen  'em  arter  a  'eavy 


•    J) 
ram. 


I  had  this  opportunity  many  times  during 
the  summer  and  autumn.  A  more  wretched  ex- 
istence than  that  of  soldiering  in  wet  weather 
could  hardly  be  imagined.  The  walls  of  the 
trenches  caved  in  in  great  masses.  The  drains 
filled  to  overflowing,  and  the  trench  walks  were 
covered  deep  in  mud.  After  a  few  hours  of 
rain,  dry  and  comfortable  trenches  became  a 
quagmire,  and  we  were  kept  busy  for  days  after- 
ward repairing  the  damage. 

83 


Kitchener's  Mob 

As  a  machine  gunner  I  was  particularly  In- 
terested in  the  construction  of  the  machine- 
gun  emplacements.  The  covered  battle  posi- 
tions were  very  solidly  built.  The  roofs  were 
supported  with  immense  logs  or  steel  girders 
covered  over  with  many  layers  of  sandbags. 
There  were  two  carefully  concealed  loopholes 
looking  out  to  a  flank,  but  none  for  frontal  fire, 
as  this  dangerous  little  weapon  best  enjoys 
catching  troops  in  enfilade  owing  to  the  rapid- 
ity and  the  narrow  cone  of  its  fire.  Its  own 
front  is  protected  by  the  guns  on  its  right  and 
left.  At  each  emplacement  there  was  a  range 
chart  giving  the  ranges  to  all  parts  of  the  ene- 
my's trenches,  and  to  every  prominent  object 
both  in  front  of  and  behind  them,  within  its 
field  of  fire.  When  not  in  use  the  gun  was  kept 
mounted  and  ready  for  action  in  the  battle 
position. 

"But  remember  this,"  said  Shorty,  "you 
never  fires  from  your  battle  position  except  In 
case  of  attack.  Wen  you  goes  out  at  night  to 
'ave  a  little  go  at  Fritzie,  you  always  tykes  yer 
gun  sommers  else.  If  you  don't,  you'll  'ave 
Minnie  an'  Busy  Bertha  an'  all  the  rest  o'  the 

84 


Private  Holloway 

Krupp  childern  comin'  over  to  see  w'ere  you 
live." 

This  was  a  wise  precaution,  as  we  were  soon 
to  learn  from  experience.  Machine  guns  are 
objects  of  special  interest  to  the  artillery,  and 
the  locality  from  which  they  are  fired  becomes 
very  unhealthy  for  some  little  time  thereafter. 

We  stopped  for  a  moment  at  "The  Mud 
Larks'  Hairdressing  Parlor,"  a  very  important 
institution  if  one  might  judge  by  its  patronage. 
It  was  housed  in  a  recess  in  the  wall  of  the  trav- 
eling trench,  and  was  open  to  the  sky.  There  I 
saw  the  latest  fashion  in  "oversea"  hair  cuts. 
The  victims  sat  on  a  ration  box  while  the  bar- 
ber mowed  great  swaths  through  tangled  thatch 
with  a  pair  of  close-cutting  clippers.  But  in- 
stead of  making  a  complete  job  of  it,  a  thick 
fringe  of  hair  which  resembled  a  misplaced 
scalping  tuft  was  left  for  decorative  purposes, 
just  above  the  forehead.  The  effect  was  so 
grotesque  that  I  had  to  invent  an  excuse  for 
laughing.  It  was  a  lame  one,  I  fear,  for  Shorty 
looked  at  me  warningly.  When  we  had  gone  on 
a  little  way  he  said :  — 

"Ain't  it  a  proper  beauty  parlor?   But  you 

85 


(( 


Kitchener's  Mob 

got  to  be  careful  about  larfin'.  Some  o'  the 
blokes  thinks  that  'edge-row  is  a  regular  orna- 
ment." 

I  had  supposed  that  a  daily  shave  was  out  of 
the  question  on  the  firing-hne;  but  the  British 
Tommy  is  nothing  if  not  resourceful.  Although 
water  is  scarce  and  fuel  even  more  so,  the  self- 
respecting  soldier  easily  surmounts  difficulties, 
and  the  Gloucesters  were  all  nice  in  matters  per- 
taining to  the  toilet.  Instead  of  draining  their 
canteens  of  tea,  they  saved  a  few  drops  for 
shaving  purposes. 

"It's  a  bit  sticky,"  said  Shorty,  "but  it's  ot, 
an'  not  'arf  bad  w'en  you  gets  used  to  it.  Now, 
another  thing  you  don't  want  to  ferget  is  this : 
W'en  yer  movin'  up  fer  yer  week  in  the  first 
line,  always  bring  a  bundle  o'  firewood  with 
you.  They  ain't  so  much  as  a  match-stick  left 
in  the  trenches.  Then  you  wants  to  be  savin' 
of  it.  Don't  go  an'  use  it  all  the  first  d'y  or 
you  '11  'ave  to  do  without  yer  tea  the  rest  o'  the 
week." 

I  remembered  his  emphasis  upon  this  point 
afterward  when  I  saw  men  risking  their  lives  in 
order  to  procure  firewood.    Without  his  tea 

86 


Private  Holloway 

Tommy  was  a  wretched  being.  I  do  not  remem- 
ber a  day,  no  matter  how  serious  the  fighting, 
when  he  did  not  find  both  the  time  and  the 
means  for  making  it. 

Shorty  was  a  Ph.D.  in  every  subject  in  the 
curriculum,  including  domestic  science.  In 
preparing  breakfast  he  gave  me  a  practical 
demonstration  of  the  art  of  conserving  a  limited 
resource  of  fuel,  bringing  our  two  canteens  to  a 
boil  with  a  very  meager  handful  of  sticks;  and 
while  doing  so  he  delivered  an  oral  thesis  on 
the  best  methods  of  food  preparation.  For  ex- 
ample, there  was  the  item  of  corned  beef  — 
familiarly  called  "bully."  It  was  the  piece  de 
resistance  at  every  meal  with  the  possible  ex- 
ception of  breakfast,  when  there  was  usually  a 
strip  of  bacon.  Now,  one's  appetite  for  "bully  " 
becomes  jaded  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  or 
months.  To  use  the  German  expression  one 
does  n't  eat  it  gem.  But  it  is  not  a  question  of 
liking  it.  One  must  eat  it  or  go  hungry.  There- 
fore, said  Shorty,  save  carefully  all  of  your  ba- 
con grease,  and  instead  of  eating  your  "bully" 
cold  out  of  the  tin,  mix  it  with  bread  crumbs 
and  grated  cheese  and  fry  it  in  the  grease.  He 

87 


Kitchener's  Mob 

prepared  some  In  this  way,  and  I  thought  it  a 
most  delectable  dish.  Another  way  of  stimulat- 
ing the  palate  was  to  boil  the  beef  in  a  solution 
of  bacon  grease  and  water,  and  then,  while 
eating  it,  "kid  yerself  that  it's  Irish  stew." 
This  second  method  of  taking  away  the  curse 
did  not  appeal  to  me  very  strongly,  and  Shorty 
admitted  that  he  practiced  such  self-decep- 
tion with  very  indifferent  success;  for  after  all 
"bully"  was  "bully"  in  whatever  form  you 
ate  it. 

In  addition  to  this  staple,  the  daily  rations 
consisted  of  bacon,  bread,  cheese,  jam,  army 
biscuits,  tea,  and  sugar.  Sometimes  they  re- 
ceived a  tinned  meat  and  vegetable  ration,  al- 
ready cooked,  and  at  welcome  intervals  fresh 
meat  and  potatoes  were  substituted  for  corned 
beef.  Each  man  had  a  very  generous  allowance 
of  food,  a  great  deal  more,  I  thought,  than  he 
could  possibly  eat.  Shorty  explained  this  by 
saying  that  allowance  was  made  for  the  amount 
which  would  be  consumed  by  the  rats  and  the 
blue-bottle  flies. 

There  were,  in  fact,  millions  of  flies.  They 
settled  in  great  swarms  along  the  walls  of  the 

88 


Private  Holloway 


trenches,  which  were  filled  to  the  brim  with 
warm  light  as  soon  as  the  sun  had  climbed  a 
little  way  up  the  sky.  Empty  tin-lined  ammu- 
nition boxes  were  used  as  cupboards  for  food. 
But  of  what  avail  were  cupboards  to  a  jam-lov- 
ing and  jam-fed  British  army  living  in  open 
ditches  in  the  summer  time?  Flytraps  made 
of  empty  jam  tins  were  set  along  the  top  of  the 
parapet.  As  soon  as  one  was  filled,  another  was 
set  in  its  place.  But  it  was  an  unequal  war 
against  an  expeditionary  force  of  countless 
numbers. 

"They  ain't  no  thin'  you  can  do,"  said  Shorty. 
"They  steal  the  jam  right  off  yer  bread." 

As  for  the  rats,  speaking  in  the  light  of  later 
experience,  I  can  say  that  an  army  corps  of  pied 
pipers  would  not  have  sufficed  to  entice  away 
the  hordes  of  them  that  infested  the  trenches, 
living  like  house  pets  on  our  rations.  They 
were  great  lazy  animals,  almost  as  large  as  cats, 
and  so  gorged  with  food  that  they  could  hardly 
move.  They  ran  over  us  in  the  dugouts  at 
night,  and  filched  cheese  and  crackers  right 
through  the  heavy  waterproofed  covering  of  our 
haversacks.  They  squealed  and  fought  among 

89 


Kitchener's  Mob 

themselves  at  all  hours.  I  think  it  possible  that 
they  were  carrion  eaters,  but  never,  to  my 
knowledge,  did  they  attack  living  men.  While 
they  were  unpleasant  bedfellows,  we  became  so 
accustomed  to  them  that  we  were  not  greatly 
concerned  about  our  very  intimate  associations. 

Our  course  of  instruction  at  the  Parapet-etic 
School  was  brought  to  a  close  late  in  the  eve- 
ning when  we  shouldered  our  packs,  bade  good- 
bye to  our  friends  the  Gloucesters,  and  marched 
back  in  the  moonlight  to  our  billets.  I  had 
gained  an  entirely  new  conception  of  trench  life, 
of  the  difhculties  involved  in  trench  building, 
and  the  immense  amount  of  material  and  labor 
needed  for  the  work. 

Americans  who  are  interested  in  learning  of 
these  things  at  first  hand  will  do  well  to  make 
the  grand  tour  of  the  trenches  when  the  war 
is  finished.  Perhaps  the  thrifty  continentals 
will  seek  to  commercialize  such  advantage  as 
misfortune  has  brought  them,  in  providing  fa- 
vorable opportunities.  Perhaps  the  Touring 
Club  of  France  will  lay  out  a  new  route,  follow- 
ing the  windings  of  the  firing  line  from  the 
Channel  coast  across  the  level  fields  of  Flan- 

90 


Private  HoUoway 

ders,  over  the  Vosges  Mountains  to  the  borders 
of  Switzerland.  Pedestrians  may  wish  to  make 
the  journey  on  foot,  cooking  their  supper  over 
Tommy's  rusty  biscuit-tin  stoves,  sleeping  at 
night  in  the  dugouts  where  he  lay  shivering 
with  cold  during  the  winter  nights  of  19 14  and 
191 5.  If  there  are  enthusiasts  who  will  be 
satished  with  only  the  most  intimate  personal 
view  of  the  trenches,  if  there  are  those  who 
would  try  to  understand  the  hardships  and 
discomforts  of  trench  life  by  living  it  during 
a  summer  vacation,  I  would  suggest  that  they 
remember  Private  Shorty  Holloway's  parting 
injunction  to  me :  — 

"Now,  don't  ferget,  Jamie!"  he  said  as  we 
shook  hands,  "  always  'ave  a  box  o'  Keatings 
'andy,  an'  'ang  on  to  yer  extra  shirt!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

MIDSUMMER   CALM 

During  our  first  summer  in  the  trenches 
there  were  days,  sometimes  weeks  at  a  time, 
when,  in  the  language  of  the  official  bulletins, 
there  was  "nothing  to  report,"  or  "calm"  pre- 
vailed "along  our  entire  front."  From  the  War 
Office  point  of  view  these  statements  were, 
doubtless,  true  enough.  But  from  Tommy 
Atkins's  point  of  view,  "calm"  was  putting  it 
somewhat  mildly.  Life  in  the  trenches,  even  on 
the  quietest  of  days,  is  full  of  adventure  highly 
spiced  with  danger.  Snipers,  machine  gunners, 
artillerymen,  airmen,  engineers  of  the  opposing 
sides,  vie  with  each  other  in  skill  and  daring,  in 
order  to  secure  that  coveted  advantage,  the 
morale.  Tommy  calls  it  the  "more-ale,"  but 
he  jolly  well  knows  when  he  has  it  and  when  he 
has  n't. 

There  were  many  nights  of  official  calm  when 
we  machine  gunners  crept  out  of  the  trenches 
with  our  guns  to  positions  prepared  beforehand, 
either  in  front  of  the  line  or  to  the  rear  of  it. 

92 


Midsummer  Calm 

There  we  waited  for  messages  from  our  listen- 
ing patrols,  who  were  lying  in  the  tall  grass  of 
"the  front  yard."  They  sent  word  to  us  imme- 
diately when  they  discovered  enemy  working 
parties  building  up  their  parapets  or  mending 
their  barbed-wire  entanglements.  We  would 
then  lay  our  guns  according  to  instructions  re- 
ceived and  blaze  away,  each  gun  firing  at  the 
rate  of  from  three  hundred  to  five  hundred 
rounds  per  minute.  After  a  heavy  burst  of  fire, 
we  would  change  our  positions  at  once.  It  was 
then  that  the  most  exciting  part  of  our  work 
began.  For  as  soon  as  we  ceased  firing,  there 
were  answering  fusillades  from  hundreds  of 
German  rifles.  And  within  two  or  three  min- 
utes, German  field  artillery  began  a  search  for 
us  with  shrapnel.  We  crawled  from  one  posi- 
tion to  another  over  the  open  ground  or  along 
shallow  ditches,  dug  for  the  purpose.  These 
offered  protection  from  rifle  fire,  but  frequently 
the  shell  fire  was  so  heavy  and  so  well  directed 
that  we  were  given  some  very  unpleasant  half- 
hours,  lying  flat  on  our  faces,  listening  to  the 
deafening  explosions  and  the  vicious  whistling 
of  flying  shrapnel. 

93 


Kitchener's  Mob 

We  fired  from  the  trenches,  as  well  as  in  front 
and  to  the  rear  of  them.  We  were,  in  fact,  busy 
during  most  of  the  night,  for  it  was  our  duty  to 
see  to  it  that  our  guns  lived  up  to  their  reputa- 
tion as  "weapons  of  opportunity  and  surprise." 
With  the  aid  of  large-scale  maps,  we  located  all 
of  the  roads,  within  range,  back  of  the  German 
lines;  roads  which  we  knew  were  used  by  enemy 
troops  moving  in  and  out  of  the  trenches.  We 
located  all  of  their  communication  trenches 
leading  back  to  the  rear;  and  at  uncertain  inter- 
vals we  covered  roads  and  trenches  with  bursts 
of  searching  fire. 

The  German  gunners  were  by  no  means  in- 
active. They,  too,  profited  by  their  knowledge 
of  night  life  in  the  firing-line,  their  knowledge  of 
soldier  nature.  They  knew,  as  did  we,  that  the 
roads  in  the  rear  of  the  trenches  are  filled, 
at  night,  with  troops,  transport  wagons,  and 
fatigue  parties.  They  knew,  as  did  we,  that 
men  become  so  utterly  weary  of  living  in  ditches 
—  living  in  holes,  like  rats  —  that  they  are  will- 
ing to  take  big  risks  when  moving  in  or  out  of 
the  trenches,  for  the  pure  joy  of  getting  up  on 
top  of  the  ground.  Many  a  night  when  we  were 

94 


Midsummer  Calm 

moving  up  for  our  week  In  the  first  line,  or  back 
for  our  week  in  reserve,  we  heard  the  far-off 
rattle  of  German  Maxims,  and  in  an  instant, 
the  bullets  would  be  zip-zipping  all  around  us. 
There  was  no  need  for  the  sharp  word  of  com- 
mand. If  there  was  a  communication  trench  at 
hand,  we  all  made  a  dive  for  it  at  once.  If  there 
was  not,  we  fell  face  down,  in  ditches,  shell 
holes,  in  any  place  which  offered  a  little  protec- 
tion from  that  terrible  hail  of  lead.  Many  of 
our  men  were  killed  and  wounded  nightly  by 
machine-gun  fire,  usually  because  they  were 
too  tired  to  be  cautious.  And,  doubtless,  we 
did  as  much  damage  with  our  own  guns.  It 
seemed  to  me  horrible,  something  in  the  nature 
of  murder,  that  advantage  must  be  taken  of 
these  opportunities.  But  it  was  all  a  part  of  the 
game  of  war;  and  fortunately,  we  rarely  knew, 
nor  did  the  Germans,  what  damage  was  done 
during  those  summer  nights  of  "  calm  along  the 
entire  front." 

The  artillerymen,  both  British  and  German, 
did  much  to  relieve  the  boredom  of  those 
"nothing  to  report"  days.  There  wxre  desul- 
tory bombardments  of  the  trenches  at  day- 

95 


Kitchener's  Mob 

break,  and  at  dusk,  when  every  infantryman  is 
at  his  post,  rifle  in  hand,  bayonet  fixed,  on  the 
alert  for  signs  of  a  surprise  attack.  If  it  was  a 
bombardment  with  shrapnel,  Tommy  was  not 
greatly  concerned,  for  in  trenches  he  is  fairly 
safe  from  shrapnel  fire.  But  if  the  shells  were 
large-caliber  high  explosives,  he  crouched  close 
to  the  front  wall  of  the  trench,  lamenting  the 
day  he  was  foolish  enough  to  become  an  infan- 
tryman, "  a  bloomin'  'uman  ninepin ! "  Covered 
with  dirt,  sometimes  half-buried  in  fallen 
trench,  he  wagered  his  next  week's  tobacco  ra- 
tions that  the  London  papers  would  print  the 
same  old  story:  "Along  the  western  front  there 
is  nothing  to  report."  And  usually  he  won. 

Trench  mortaring  was  more  to  our  liking. 
That  is  an  infantryman's  game,  and,  while 
extremely  hazardous,  the  men  in  the  trenches 
have  a  sporting  chance.  Every  one  forgot 
breakfast  when  word  was  passed  down  the  line 
that  we  were  going  to  "mortarfy  "  Fritzie.  The 
last-relief  night  sentries,  who  had  just  tumbled 
sleepily  into  their  dugouts,  tumbled  out  of  them 
again  to  watch  the  fun.  Fatigue  parties,  work- 
ing in  the  communication  trenches,  dropped 

96 


Midsummer  Calm 

their  picks  and  shovels  and  came  hurrying  up 
to  the  first  Hne.  Eagerly,  expectantly,  every 
one  waited  for  the  sport  to  begin.  Our  projec- 
tiles were  immense  balls  of  hollow  steel,  filled 
with  high  explosive  of  tremendous  power.  They 
were  fired  from  a  small  gun,  placed,  usually,  in 
the  first  line  of  reserve  trenches.  A  dull  boom 
from  the  rear  warned  us  that  the  game  had 
started. 

"There  she  is!"  "See  'er?  Goin'  true  as  a 
die!"  "She'sgoV  to 'it!  She's  go'n' to 'it!" 
All  of  the  boys  would  be  shouting  at  once.  Up 
it  goes,  turning  over  and  over,  rising  to  a  height 
of  several  hundred  feet.  Then,  if  well  aimed,  it 
reaches  the  end  of  its  upward  journey  directly 
over  the  enemy's  line,  and  falls  straight  into  his 
trench.  There  is  a  moment  of  silence,  followed 
by  a  terrific  explosion  which  throws  dirt  and 
debris  high  in  the  air.  By  this  time  every 
Tommy  along  the  line  is  standing  on  the 
firing-bench,  head  and  shoulders  above  the 
parapet,  quite  forgetting  his  own  danger  in 
his  excitement,  and  shouting  at  the  top  of  his 
voice. 

"'Ow's  that  one,  Fritzie  boy?" 

97 


Kitchener's  Mob 

"Goo ten  morgen,  you  Proosian  sausage- 
wallopers  1" 

"Tyke  a  bit  o'  that  there  'ome  to  yer  missus ! " 

But  Fritzie  could  be  depended  upon  to  keep 
up  his  end  of  the  game.  He  gave  us  just  as  good 
as  we  sent,  and  often  he  added  something  for 
full  measure.  His  surprises  were  sausage-shaped 
missiles  which  came  wobbling  toward  us,  slowly, 
almost  awkwardly;  but  they  dropped  with  light- 
ning speed,  and  alas,  for  any  poor  Tommy  who 
misjudged  the  place  of  its  fall!  However,  every 
one  had  a  chance.  Trench-mortar  projectiles 
are  so  large  that  one  can  see  them  coming,  and 
they  describe  so  leisurely  an  arc  before  they 
fall  that  men  have  time  to  run, 

I  have  always  admired  Tommy  Atkins  for 
his  sense  of  fair  play.  He  enjoyed  giving  Fritz 
"  a  little  bit  of  all-right,"  but  he  never  resented 
it  when  Fritz  had  his  own  fun  at  our  expense. 
In  the  far-off  days  of  peace,  I  used  to  lament 
the  fact  that  we  had  fallen  upon  evil  times.  I 
read  of  old  wars  with  a  feeling  of  regret  that 
men  had  lost  their  old  primal  love  for  dangerous 
sport,  their  naive  ignorance  of  fear.  All  the 
brave,  heroic  things  of  life  were  said  and  done. 

98 


Midsummer  Calm 

But  on  those  trench-mortaring  days,  when  I 
watched  boys  playing  with  death  with  right 
good  zest,  heard  them  shouting  and  laughing 
as  they  tumbled  over  one  another  in  their 
eagerness  to  escape  it,  I  was  convinced  of  my 
error.  Daily  I  saw  men  going  through  the  test 
of  fire  triumphantly,  and,  at  the  last,  what  a 
severe  test  it  was!  And  how  splendidly  they 
met  it!  During  six  months  continuously  in  the 
firing-line,  I  met  less  than  a  dozen  natural-born 
cowards;  and  my  experience  was  largely  with 
plumbers,  drapers'  assistants,  clerks,  men  who 
had  no  fighting  traditions  to  back  them  up, 
make  them  heroic  in  spite  of  themselves. 

The  better  I  knew  Tommy,  the  better  I  liked 
him.  He  has  n't  a  shred  of  sentimentality  in  his 
make-up.  There  is  plenty  of  sentiment,  sincere 
feeling,  but  it  is  admirably  concealed.  I  had 
been  a  soldier  of  the  King  for  many  months 
before  I  realized  that  the  men  with  whom  I  was 
living,  sharing  rations  and  hardships,  were  any- 
thing other  than  the  healthy  animals  they 
looked.  They  relished  their  food  and  talked 
about  it.  They  grumbled  at  the  restraints  mil- 
itary discipline  imposed  upon  them,  and  at  the 

99 


Kitchener's  Mob 

paltry  shilling  a  day  which  they  received  for 
the  first  really  hard  work  they  had  ever  done. 
They  appeared  to  regard  England  as  a  miserly 
employer,  exacting  their  last  ounce  of  energy 
for  a  wretchedly  inadequate  wage.  To  the  cas- 
ual observer,  theirs  was  not  the  ardor  of  loyal 
sons,  fighting  for  a  beloved  motherland.  Rather, 
it  seemed  that  of  irresponsible  schoolboys  on  a 
long  holiday.  They  said  nothing  about  patri- 
otism or  the  duty  of  Englishmen  in  war-time. 
And  if  I  attempted  to  start  a  conversation 
along  that  line,  they  walked  right  over  me  with 
their  boots  on. 

This  was  a  great  disappointment  at  first.  I 
should  never  have  known,  from  anything  that 
was  said,  that  a  man  of  them  was  stirred  at  the 
thought  of  fighting  for  old  England.  England 
was  all  right,  but  "I  ain't  goin'  balmy  about 
the  old  flag  and  all  that  stuff."  Many  of  them 
insisted  that  they  were  in  the  army  for  personal 
and  selfish  reasons  alone.  They  went  out  of 
their  way  to  ridicule  any  and  every  indication 
of  sentiment. 

There  was  the  matter  of  talk  about  mothers, 
for  example.  I  can't  imagine  this  being  the  case 

100 


Midsummer  Calm 

in  a  volunteer  army  of  American  boys,  but  not 
once,  during  fifteen  months  of  British  army 
life,  did  I  hear  a  discussion  of  mothers.  When 
the  weekly  parcels  from  England  arrived  and 
the  boys  were  sharing  their  cake  and  chocolate 
and  tobacco,  one  of  them  would  say,  "Good  old 
mum.  She  ain't  a  bad  sort";  to  be  answered 
with  reluctant,  mouth-filled  grunts,  or  grudging 
nods  of  approval.  As  for  fathers,  I  often  thought 
to  myself,  "What  a  tremendous  army  of  post- 
humous sons!"  Months  before  I  would  have 
been  astonished  at  this  reticence.  But  I  had 
learned  to  understand  Tommy.  His  silences 
were  as  eloquent  as  any  splendid  outbursts  or 
glowing  tributes  could  have  been.  Indeed,  they 
were  far  more  eloquent!  Englishmen  seem  to 
have  an  instinctive  understanding  of  the  futil- 
ity, the  emptiness,  of  words  in  the  face  of  un- 
speakable experiences.  It  was  a  matter  of  con- 
stant wonder  to  me  that  men,  living  in  the  daily 
and  hourly  presence  of  death,  could  so  surely 
control  and  conceal  their  feelings.  Their  talk 
was  of  anything  but  home;  and  yet,  I  knew 
they  thought  of  but  little  else. 
One  of  our  boys  was  killed,  and  there  was 

lOI 


Kitchener's  Mob 

the  letter  to  be  written  to  his  parents.  Three 
Tommies  who  knew  him  best  were  to  attempt 
this.  They  made  innumerable  beginnings.  Each 
of  them  was  afraid  of  blundering,  of  causing 
unnecessary  pain  by  an  indelicate  revelation  of 
the  facts.  There  was  a  feminine  fineness  about 
their  concern  which  was  beautiful  to  see.  The 
final  draft  of  the  letter  was  a  little  masterpiece, 
not  of  English,  but  of  insight;  such  a  letter  as 
any  one  of  us  would  have  wished  his  own  par- 
ents to  receive  under  like  circumstances.  No- 
thing was  forgotten  which  could  have  made  the 
news  in  the  slightest  degree  more  endurable. 
Every  trifling  personal  belonging  was  carefully 
saved  and  packed  in  a  little  box  to  follow  the 
letter.  All  of  this  was  done  amid  much  boister- 
ous jesting.  And  there  was  the  usual  hilarious 
singing  to  the  wheezing  accompaniment  of  an 
old  mouth-organ.  But  of  reference  to  home,  or 
mothers,  or  comradeship,  —  nothing. 

Rarely  a  night  passed  without  its  burial  par- 
ties. "Digging  in  the  garden"  Tommy  calls  the 
grave-making.  The  bodies,  wrapped  in  blank- 
ets or  waterproof  ground-sheets,  are  lifted  over 
the  parados,  and  carried  back  a  convenient 

102 


Midsummer  Calm 

twenty  yards  or  more.  The  desolation  of  that 
garden,  choked  with  weeds  and  a  wild  growth 
of  self-sown  crops,  is  indescribable.  It  was 
wreckage-strewn,  gaping  with  shell  holes,  bil- 
lowing with  innumerable  graves,  a  waste  land 
speechlessly  pathetic.  The  poplar  trees  and 
willow  hedges  have  been  blasted  and  splintered 
by  shell  lire.  Tommy  calls  these  "Kaiser  Bill's 
flowers."  Coming  from  England,  he  feels  more 
deeply  than  he  would  care  to  admit  the  crimes 
done  to  trees  in  the  name  of  war. 

Our  chaplain  was  a  devout  man,  but  prudent 
to  a  fault.  Never,  to  my  knowledge,  did  he  visit 
us  in  the  trenches.  Therefore  our  burial  parties 
proceeded  without  the  rites  of  the  Church.  This 
arrangement  was  highly  satisfactory  to  Tommy. 
He  liked  to  "get  the  planting  done"  with  the 
least  possible  delay  or  fuss.  His  whispered  con- 
versations while  the  graves  were  being  scooped 
were,  to  say  the  least,  quite  out  of  the  spirit  of 
the  occasion.  Once  we  were  burying  two  boys 
with  whom  we  had  been  having  supper  a  few 
hours  before.  There  was  an  artillery  duel  in 
progress,  the  shells  whistling  high  over  our 
heads,  and  bursting  in  great  splotches  of  white 

J  03 


Kitchener's  Mob 

fire,  far  In  rear  of  the  opposing  lines  of  trenches. 
The  grave-making  went  speedily  on,  while  the 
burial  party  argued  in  whispers  as  to  the  caliber 
of  the  guns.  Some  said  they  were  six-Inch,  while 
others  thought  nine-Inch.  Discussion  was  mo- 
mentarily suspended  when  a  trench  rocket  shot 
In  an  arc  from  the  enemy's  line.  We  crouched, 
motionless,  until  the  welcome  darkness  spread 
again. 

And  then,  in  loud  whispers :  — 

"'Ere!  If  they  was  nine-inch,  they  would 
'ave  more  screech." 

And  one  from  the  other  school  of  opinion 
would  reply:  — 

"Don't  talk  so  bloomin'  silly!  Ain't  I  a-tellin' 
you  that  you  can't  always  size  'em  by  the 
screech?" 

Not  a  prayer;  not  a  word,  either  of  censure 
or  of  praise,  for  the  boys  who  had  gone;  not  an 
expression  of  opinion  as  to  the  meaning  of  the 
great  change  which  had  come  to  them  and  which 
might  come,  as  suddenly,  to  any  or  all  of  us. 
And  yet  I  knew  that  they  were  each  thinking 
of  these  things. 

There  were  days  when  the  front  was  really 

104 


Midsummer  Calm 

quiet.  The  thin  trickle  of  rifle  fire  only  accentu- 
ated the  stillness  of  an  early  summer  morning. 
Far  down  the  line  Tommy  could  be  heard,  sing- 
ing to  himself  as  he  sat  in  the  door  of  his  dugout, 
cleaning  his  rifle,  or  making  a  careful  scrutiny 
of  his  shirt  for  those  unwelcome  little  parasites 
which  made  life  so  miserable  for  him  at  all  times. 
There  were  pleasant  cracklings  of  burning  pine 
sticks  and  the  sizzle  of  frying  bacon.  Great 
swarms  of  bluebottle  flies  buzzed  lazily  in  the 
warm  sunshine.  Sometimes,  across  a  pool  of 
noonday  silence,  we  heard  birds  singing;  for  the 
birds  did  n't  desert  us.  When  we  gave  them  a 
hearing,  they  did  their  cheery  little  best  to  as- 
sure us  that  everything  would  come  right  in  the 
end.  Once  we  heard  a  skylark,  an  English  sky- 
lark, singing  over  No-Man's-Land !  I  scarcely 
know  which  gave  me  more  pleasure,  the  song, 
or  the  sight  of  the  faces  of  those  English  lads 
as  they  listened.  I  was  deeply  touched  when 
one  of  them  said :  — 

"Ain't  'e  a  plucky  little  chap,  singin'  right  in 
front  of  Fritzie's  trenches  fer  us  English  blokes  ? " 

It  was  a  sincere  and  fitting  tribute,  as  perfect 
for  a  soldier  as  Shelley's  "Ode"  for  a  poet. 

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Kitchener's  Mob 

Along  the  part  of  the  British  front  which  we 
held  during  the  summer,  the  opposing  lines  of 
trenches  were  from  less  than  a  hundred  to  four 
hundred  and  fifty  or  five  hundred  yards  apart. 
When  we  were  neighborly  as  regards  distance, 
we  were  also  neighborly  as  regards  social  inter- 
course. In  the  early  mornings  when  the  heavy 
night  mists  still  concealed  the  lines,  the  boys 
stood  head  and  shoulders  above  the  parapet 
and  shouted:  — 

"HI,  Fritzie!" 

And  the  greeting  was  returned :  — 

"HI,  Tommy!" 

Then  we  conversed.  Very  few  of  us  knew 
German,  but  It  is  surprising  how  many  Ger- 
mans could  speak  English.  Frequently  they 
shouted,  "Got  any  Woodbines,'  Tommy?"  — 
his  favorite  brand  of  cigarettes;  and  Tommy 
would  reply,  "Sure!  Shall  I  bring  'em  over 
or  will  you  come  an'  fetch  'em?"  This  was 
often  the  ice-breaker,  the  beginning  of  a  con- 
versation which  varied  considerably  in  other 
details. 

"Who  are  you?"  Fritzie  would  shout. 

And  Tommy,  "We're  the  King's  Own  'Ymn 

1 06 


Midsummer  Calm 

of  'Aters";  some  such  subtle  repartee  as  that. 
"Wot's  your  mob?" 

"We're  a  battalion  of  Irish  rifles."  The  Ger- 
mans liked  to  provoke  us  by  pretending  that 
the  Irish  were  disloyal  to  England. 

Sometimes  they  shouted :  — 

"Any  of  you  from  London?" 

"  Not  arf !  Wot  was  you  a-doin'  of  in  London  ? 
Witin'  tible  at  Sam  Isaac's  fish-shop?" 

The  rising  of  the  mists  put  an  end  to  these 
conversations.  Sometimes  they  were  concluded 
earlier  with  bursts  of  rifle  and  machine-gun 
fire.  "All  right  to  be  friendly,"  Tommy  would 
say,  "but  we  got  to  let  'em  know  this  ain't  no 
love-feast." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

UNDER  COVER 

I.  UNSEEN  FORCES 

"We  come  acrost  the  Channel 
For  to  wallop  Germany; 
But  they  'ave  n't  got  no  soldiers  — 
Not  that  any  one  can  see. 
They  plug  us  with  their  rifles 
An'  they  let  their  shrapnel  fly, 
But  they  never  takes  a  pot  at  us 
Exceptin'  on  the  sly. 

Chorus 

"Fritzie  w'en  you  comin'  out? 
This  wot  you  calls  a  fight? 
You  won't  never  get  to  Calais 
Always  keepin'  out  o'  sight. 

"We're  a  goin'  back  to  Blightey  — 
Wot's  the  use  a-witin'  'ere 
Like  a  lot  o'  bloomin'  mud-larks 
Fer  old  Fritzie  to  appear? 
'E  never  puts  'is  napper  up 
Above  the  parapet. 
We  been  in  France  fer  seven  months 
An'  'ave  n't  seen  'im  yet!" 

So  sang  Tommy,  the  Incorrigible  parodist, 
during  the  long  summer  days  and  nights  of 

io8 


Under  Cover 

1915,  when  he  was  Impatiently  waiting  for 
something  to  turn  up.  For  three  months  and 
more  we  were  face  to  face  with  an  enemy  whom 
we  rarely  saw.  It  was  a  weird  experience. 
Rifles  cracked,  bullets  zip-zipped  along  the  top 
of  the  parapet,  great  shells  whistled  over  our 
heads  or  tore  immense  holes  in  the  trenches, 
trench-mortar  projectiles  and  hand-grenades 
were  hurled  at  us,  and  yet  there  was  not  a  living 
soul  to  be  seen  across  the  narrow  strip  of  No- 
Man's-Land,  whence  all  this  murderous  rain  of 
steel  and  lead  was  coming.  Daily  we  kept  care- 
ful and  continuous  watch,  searching  the  long, 
curving  line  of  German  trenches  and  the  ground 
behind  them  with  our  periscopes  and  field- 
glasses,  and  nearly  always  with  the  same  barren 
result.  We  saw  only  the  thin  wreaths  of  smoke 
rising,  morning  and  evening,  from  trench  fires; 
the  shattered  trees,  the  forlorn  and  silent  ruins, 
the  long  grass  waving  in  the  wind. 

Although  we  were  often  within  two  hundred 
yards  of  thousands  of  German  soldiers,  rarely 
farther  than  four  hundred  yards  away,  I  did 
not  see  one  of  them  until  we  had  been  in  the 
trenches  for  more  than  six  weeks,  and  then  only 

109 


Kitchener's  Mob 

for  the  interval  of  a  second  or  two.  My  German 
was  building  up  a  piece  of  damaged  parapet. 
I  watched  the  earth  being  thrown  over  the  top 
of  the  trench,  when  suddenly  a  head  appeared, 
only  to  be  immediately  withdrawn.  One  of  our 
snipers  had  evidently  been  watching,  too.  A 
rifle  cracked  and  I  saw  a  cloud  of  dust  arise 
where  the  bullet  clipped  the  top  of  the  parapet. 
The  German  waved  his  spade  defiantly  in  the 
air  and  continued  digging;  but  he  remained 
discreetly  under  cover  thereafter. 

This  marked  an  epoch  in  my  experience  in  a 
war  of  unseen  forces.  I  had  actually  beheld  a 
German,  although  Tommy  insisted  that  it  was 
only  the  old  caretaker,  "the  bloke  wot  keeps 
the  trenches  tidy."  This  mythical  personage,  a 
creature  of  Tommy's  own  fancy,  assumed  a 
very  real  importance  during  the  summer  when 
the  attractions  at  the  Western  Theater  of  War 
were  only  mildly  interesting.  "Carl  the  care- 
taker" was  supposed  to  be  a  methodical  old 
man  whom  the  Emperor  had  left  in  charge  of 
his  trenches  on  the  western  front  during  the 
absence  of  the  German  armies  in  Russia.  Many 
were  the  stories  told  about  him  at  different 

no 


Under  Cover 

parts  of  the  line.  Sometimes  he  was  endowed 
with  a  family.  His  "missus"  and  his  "three 
little  nippers"  were  with  him,  and  together 
they  were  blocking  the  way  to  Berlin  of  the 
entire  British  Army.  Sometimes  he  was  "Hans 
the  Grenadier,"  owing  to  his  fondness  for 
nightly  bombing  parties.  Sometimes  he  was 
"Minnie's  husband,"  Minnie  being  that  re- 
doubtable lady  known  in  polite  military  circles 
as  a  "Minnenwerfer."  As  already  explained, 
she  was  sausage-like  in  shape,  and  frightfully 
demonstrative.  When  she  went  visiting  at  the 
behest  of  her  husband.  Tommy  usually  con- 
trived to  be  "not  at  home,"  whereupon  Minnie 
wrecked  the  house  and  disappeared  in  a  cloud 
of  dense  black  smoke. 

One  imagines  all  sorts  of  monstrous  things 
about  an  unseen  enemy.  The  strain  of  con- 
stantly watching  and  seeing  nothing  became 
almost  unbearable  at  times.  We  were  often  too 
far  apart  to  have  our  early  morning  interchange 
of  courtesies,  and  then  the  constant  phtt-phtt  of 
bullets  annoyed  and  exasperated  us.  I  for  one 
welcomed  any  evidence  that  our  opponents 
were  fathers  and  husbands  and  brothers  just  as 

III 


Kitchener's  Mob 

we  were.  I  remember  my  delight,  one  fine  sum- 
mer morning,  at  seeing  three  great  kites  soaring 
above  the  German  line.  There  is  much  to  be 
said  for  men  who  enjoy  flying  kites.  Once  they 
mounted  a  dummy  figure  of  a  man  on  their 
parapet.  Tommy  had  great  sport  shooting  at 
it,  the  Germans  jiggling  its  arms  and  legs  in  a 
most  laughable  manner  whenever  a  hit  was 
registered.  In  their  eagerness  to  "get  a  good 
bead"  on  the  figure,  the  men  threw  caution  to 
the  winds,  and  stood  on  the  firing-benches, 
shooting  over  the  top  of  the  parapet.  Fritz 
and  Hans  were  true  sportsmen  while  the  fun 
was  on,  and  did  not  once  fire  at  us.  Then  the 
dummy  was  taken  down,  and  we  returned  to  the 
more  serious  game  of  war  with  the  old  deadly 
earnestness.  I  recall  such  incidents  with  joy  as 
I  remember  certain  happy  events  in  childhood. 
We  needed  these  trivial  occurrences  to  keep  us 
sane  and  human.  There  were  not  many  of 
them,  but  such  as  there  were,  we  talked  of  for 
days  and  weeks  afterward. 

As  for  the  matter  of  keeping  out  of  sight, 
there  was  a  good  deal  to  be  said  on  both  sides. 
Although  Tommy  was  impatient  with  his  pru- 

112 


Under  Cover 

dent  enemy  and  sang  songs,  twitting  him  about 
always  keeping  under  cover,  he  did  not  usually 
forget,  in  the  daytime  at  least,  to  make  his  own 
observations  of  the  German  line  with  caution. 
Telescopic  sights  have  made  the  business  of 
sniping  an  exact  science.  They  magnify  the 
object  aimed  at  many  diameters,  and  if  it  re- 
mains in  view  long  enough  to  permit  the  pulling 
of  a  trigger,  the  chances  of  a  hit  are  almost  one 
hundred  per  cent. 

II.  "the  butt-notcher" 

Snipers  have  a  roving  commission.  They 
move  from  one  part  of  the  line  to  another, 
sometimes  firing  from  carefully  concealed  loop- 
holes in  the  parapet,  sometimes  from  snipers' 
nests  in  trees  or  hedges.  Often  they  creep  out 
into  the  tall  grass  of  No-Man's-Land.  There, 
with  a  plentiful  supply  of  food  and  ammuni- 
tion, they  remain  for  a  day  or  two  at  a  time, 
lying  in  wait  for  victims.  It  was  a  cold-blooded 
business,  and  hateful  to  some  of  the  men.  With 
others,  the  passion  for  it  grew.  They  kept 
tally  of  their  victims  by  cutting  notches  on  the 
butts  of  their  rifles. 

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Kitchener's  Mob 

I  well  remember  the  pleasant  June  day  when 
I  first  met  a  "butt-notcher."  I  was  going  for 
water,  to  an  old  farmhouse  about  half  a  mile 
from  our  sector  of  trench.  It  was  a  day  of 
bright  sunshine.  Poppies  and  buttercups  had 
taken  root  in  the  banks  of  earth  heaped  up  on 
either  side  of  the  communication  trench.  They 
were  nodding  their  heads  as  gayly  in  the  breeze 
as  of  old  did  Wordsworth's  daffodils  in  the 
quiet  countryside  at  Rydal  Mount.  It  was  a  joy 
to  see  them  there,  reminding  one  that  God  was 
still  in  his  heaven,  whatever  might  be  wrong 
with  the  world.  It  was  a  joy  to  be  alive,  a 
joy  which  one  could  share  unselfishly  with 
friend  and  enemy  alike.  The  colossal  stupidity 
of  war  was  never  more  apparent  to  me  than 
upon  that  day.  I  hated  my  job,  and  if  I 
hated  any  man,  it  was  the  one  who  had 
Invented  the  murderous  little  weapon  known 
as  a  machine  gun. 

I  longed  to  get  out  on  top  of  the  ground. 
I  wanted  to  lie  at  full  length  in  the  grass;  for 
it  was  June,  and  Nature  has  a  way  of  making 
one  feel  the  call  of  June,  even  from  the  bottom 
of  a  communication  trench  seven  feet  deep. 

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Under  Cover 

Flowers  and  grass  peep  down  at  one,  and  white 
clouds  sail  placidly  across 


'The  strip  of  blue  we  prisoners  call  the  sky. 


>> 


I  felt  that  I  must  see  all  of  the  sky  and  see  it  at 
once.  Therefore  I  set  down  my  water  cans,  one 
on  top  of  the  other,  stepped  up  on  them,  and 
was  soon  over  the  top  of  the  trench,  crawling 
through  the  tall  grass  toward  a  clump  of  wil- 
lows about  fifty  yards  away.  I  passed  two 
lonely  graves  with  their  wooden  crosses  hidden 
in  depths  of  shimmering,  waving  green,  and 
found  an  old  rifle,  its  stock  weather-warped  and 
the  barrel  eaten  away  with  rust.  The  ground 
was  covered  with  tin  cans,  fragments  of  shell- 
casing,  and  rubbish  of  all  sorts;  but  it  was  hid- 
den from  view.  Men  had  been  laying  waste  the 
earth  during  the  long  winter,  and  now  June  was 
healing  the  wounds  with  flowers  and  cool  green 
grasses. 

I  was  sorry  that  I  went  to  the  willows,  for  it 
was  there  that  I  found  the  sniper.  He  had  a 
wonderfully  concealed  position,  which  was 
made  bullet-proof  with  steel  plates  and  sand- 
bags, all  covered  so  naturally  with  growing 

115 


Kitchener's  Mob 

grass  and  willow  bushes  that  it  would  have 
been  impossible  to  detect  it  at  a  distance  of 
ten  yards.  In  fact,  I  would  not  have  discov- 
ered it  had  it  not  been  for  the  loud  crack  of  a 
rifle  sounding  so  close  at  hand.  I  crept  on  to 
investigate  and  found  the  sniper  looking  quite 
disappointed. 

"Missed  the  blighter!"  he  said.  Then  he 
told  me  that  it  was  n't  a  good  place  for  a 
sniper's  nest  at  all.  For  one  thing,  it  was  too 
far  back,  nearly  a  half-mile  from  the  German 
trenches.  Furthermore,  it  was  a  mistake  to 
plant  a  nest  in  a  solitary  clump  of  willows  such 
as  this :  a  clump  of  trees  offers  too  good  an  aim- 
ing mark  for  artillery :  much  better  to  make  a 
position  right  out  in  the  open.  However,  so  far 
he  had  not  been  annoyed  by  shell  fire.  A  ma- 
chine gun  had  searched  for  him,  but  he  had 
adequate  cover  from  machine-gun  fire. 

"But,  blimy!  You  ought  to  'a'  'card  the  row 
w'en  the  bullets  was  a-smackin'  against  the 
sandbags!  Somebody  was  a-knockin'  at  the 
door,  I  give  you  my  word!" 

However,  it  was  n't  such  a  "  dusty  little  coop," 
and  he  had  a  good  field  of  fire.   He  had  regis- 

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Under  Cover 

tered  four  hits  during  the  day,  and  he  proudly 
displayed  four  new  notches  on  a  badly  notched 
butt  in  proof  of  the  fact. 

"There's  a  big  'ole  w'ere  the  artiU'ry  pushed 
in  their  parapet  larst  night.  That's  w'ere  I 
caught  me  larst  one,  'bout  a  'arf-hour  ago.  A 
bloke  goes  by  every  little  w'ile  an'  fergets  to 
duck  'is  napper.  Tyke  yer  field-glasses  an' 
watch  me  clip  the  next  one.  Quarter  left 
it  is,  this  side  the  old  'ouse  with  the  'ole  in 
the  wall." 

I  focused  my  glasses  and  waited.  Presently 
he  said,  in  a  very  cool,  matter-of-fact  voice:  — 

"There's  one  comin'.  See'Im.''  'E'scarryin' 
a  plank.  You  can  see  it  stickin'  up  above  the 
parapet.  'E's  a-go'n'  to  get  a  nasty  one  if  'e 
don't  duck  w'en  he  comes  to  that  'ole." 

I  found  the  moving  plank  and  followed  it 
along  the  trench  as  it  approached  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  opening;  and  I  was  guilty  of  the 
most  unprofessional  conduct,  for  I  kept  think- 
ing, as  hard  as  I  could,  "Duck,  Fritziel  What- 
ever you  do,  duck  when  you  come  to  that  hole!" 
And  surely  enough,  he  did.  The  plank  was  low- 
ered into  the  trench  just  before  the  opening  was 

117 


Kitchener's  Mob 

reached,  and  the  top  of  it  reappeared  again,  a 
moment  later,  on  the  other  side  of  the  opening. 
The  sniper  was  greatly  disappointed. 

"Now,  would  n't  that  give  you  the  camel's 
'ump?"  he  said.  "I  believe  you're  a  Joner  to 
me,  matey." 

Presently  another  man  carrying  a  plank  went 
along  the  trench  and  he  ducked,  too. 

"Grease  off,  Jerry!"  said  the  butt-notcher. 
"Yer  bringin'  me  bad  luck.  'Owever,  they 
prob'ly  got  that  place  taped.  They  lost  one 
man  there  an'  they  won't  lose  another,  not  if 
they  knows  it." 

I  talked  with  many  snipers  at  different  parts 
of  the  line.  It  was  interesting  to  get  their  points 
of  view,  to  learn  what  their  reaction  was  to 
their  work.  The  butt-notchers  were  very  few. 
Although  snipers  invariably  took  pride  in  their 
work,  it  was  the  sportsman's  pride  in  good 
marksmanship  rather  than  the  love  of  killing 
for  its  own  sake.  The  general  attitude  was  that 
of  a  corporal  whom  I  knew.  He  never  fired  has- 
tily, but  when  he  did  pull  the  trigger,  his  bullet 
went  true  to  the  mark. 

"You  can't  'elp  feelin'  sorry  for  the  poor 

ii8 


Under  Cover 

blighters,"  he  would  say,  "but  It's  us  or  them, 
an'  every  one  you  knocks  over  means  one  of  our 
blokes  saved." 

I  have  no  doubt  that  the  Germans  felt  the 
same  way  about  us.  At  any  rate,  they  thor- 
oughly believed  In  the  policy  of  attrition,  and 
In  carrying  it  out  they  often  wasted  thousands 
of  rounds  In  sniping  every  yard  of  our  parapet. 
The  sound  was  deafening  at  times,  particularly 
when  there  were  ruined  walls  of  houses  or  a 
row  of  trees  just  back  of  our  trenches.  The  ear- 
splitting  reports  were  hurled  against  them  and 
seemed  to  be  shattered  Into  thousands  of  frag- 
ments, the  sound  rattling  and  tumbling  on 
until  it  died  away  far  In  the  distance. 

III.    NIGHT    ROUTINE 

Meanwhile,  like  furtive  Inhabitants  of  an 
Infamous  underworld,  we  remained  hidden  In 
our  lairs  in  the  daytime,  waiting  for  night  when 
we  could  creep  out  of  our  holes  and  go  about 
our  business  under  cover  of  darkness.  Sleep  is 
a  luxury  indulged  in  but  rarely  In  the  first-line 
trenches.  When  not  on  sentry  duty  at  night, 
the  men  were  organized  Into  working  parties, 

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Kitchener's  Mob 

and  sent  out  in  front  of  the  trenches  to  mend 
the  barbed-wire  entanglements  which  are  being 
constantly  destroyed  by  artillery  fire;  or,  in 
summer,  to  cut  the  tall  grass  and  the  weeds 
which  would  otherwise  offer  concealment  to 
enemy  listening  patrols  or  bombing  parties. 
Ration  fatigues  of  twenty  or  thirty  men  per 
company  went  back  to  meet  the  battalion 
transport  wagons  at  some  point  several  miles 
in  rear  of  the  firing-line.  There  were  trench 
supplies  and  stores  to  be  brought  up  as  well, 
and  the  never-finished  business  of  mending  and 
improving  the  trenches  kept  many  off-duty 
men  employed  during  the  hours  of  darkness. 

The  men  on  duty  in  front  of  the  trenches 
were  always  in  very  great  danger.  They  worked 
swiftly  and  silently,  but  they  were  often  dis- 
covered, in  which  case  the  only  warning  they 
received  was  a  sudden  burst  of  machine- 
gun  fire.  Then  would  come  urgent  calls  for 
"  Stretcher  bearers !"  and  soon  the  wreckage  was 
brought  in  over  the  parapet.  The  stretchers 
were  set  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  trench 
and  hasty  examinations  made  by  the  light  of 
a  flash  lamp. 

1 20 


Under  Cover 

"W'ere's'e  caught  it?" 

"  'Ere  it  is,  through  the  leg.  Tyke  'is  puttee 
off,  one  of  you!" 

"Easy,  now!  It's  smashed  the  bone!  Stick 
it,  matey!  We'll  soon  'ave  you  as  right  as 
rami 

"Fer  Gawd's  sake,  boys,  go  easy!  It's  givin' 
me  'ell!  Let  up!  Let  up  just  a  minute!" 

Many  a  conversation  of  this  sort  did  we  hear 
at  night  when  the  field-dressings  were  being 
put  on.  But  even  in  his  suffering  Tommy  never 
forgot  to  be  unrighteously  indignant  if  he  had 
been  wounded  when  on  a  working  party.  What 
could  he  say  to  the  women  of  England  who 
would  bring  him  fruit  and  flowers  in  hospital, 
call  him  a  "poor  brave  fellow,"  and  ask  how  he 
was  wounded?  He  had  enlisted  as  a  soldier,  and 
as  a  reward  for  his  patriotism  the  Government 
had  given  him  a  shovel,  "an'  'ere  I  am,  workin' 
like  a  bloomin'  navvy,  fiUin'  sandbags  full  o' 
France,  w'en  I  up  an'  gets  plugged!"  The  men 
who  most  bitterly  resented  the  pick-and-shovel 
phase  of  army  life  were  given  a  great  deal  of  it 
to  do  for  that  very  reason.  One  of  my  comrades 
was  shot  in  the  leg  while  digging  a  refuse  pit. 

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Kitchener's  Mob 

The  wound  was  a  bad  one  and  he  suffered  much 
pain,  but  the  humiliation  was  even  harder  to 
bear.  What  could  he  tell  them  at  home? 

"Do  you  think  I'm  a  go'n'  to  s'y  I  was 
a-carryin'  a  sandbag  full  of  old  jam  tins  back 
to  the  refuse  pit  w'en  Fritzie  gave  me  this  'ere 
one  In  the  leg?  Not  so  bloomin'  likely!  I  was 
afraid  I'd  get  one  like  this!  Ain't  it  a  rotten 
bit  o' luck!" 

If  he  had  to  be  a  casualty  Tommy  wanted  to 
be  an  interesting  one.  He  wanted  to  fall  in  the 
heat  of  battle,  not  in  the  heat  of  inglorious 
fatigue  duty. 

But  there  was  more  heroic  work  to  be  done: 
going  out  on  listening  patrol,  for  example.  One 
patrol,  consisting  of  a  sergeant  or  a  corporal 
and  four  or  five  privates,  was  sent  out  from 
each  company.  It  was  the  duty  of  these  men 
to  cover  the  area  immediately  In  front  of  the 
company  line  of  trench,  to  see  and  hear  without 
being  discovered,  and  to  report  Immediately 
any  activity  of  the  enemy,  above  or  below 
ground,  of  which  they  might  learn.  They  were 
on  duty  for  from  three  to  five  hours,  and  might 
use  a  wide  discretion  In  their  prowllngs,  pro- 

122 


Under  Cover 

vided  they  kept  within  the  limits  of  frontage 
allotted  to  their  own  company,  and  returned  to 
the  meeting-place  where  the  change  of  reliefs 
was  made.  These  requirements  were  not  easily 
complied  with,  unless  there  were  trees  or  other 
prominent  landmarks  standing  out  against  the 
sky  by  means  of  which  a  patrol  could  keep  its 
direction. 

The  work  required,  above  everything  else, 
cool  heads  and  stout  hearts.  There  was  the 
ever-present  danger  of  meeting  an  enemy  patrol 
or  bombing  party,  in  which  case,  if  they  could 
not  be  avoided,  there  would  be  a  hand-to-hand 
encounter  with  bayonets,  or  a  noisy  exchange 
of  hand-grenades.  There  was  danger,  too,  of 
a  false  alarm  started  by  a  nervous  sentry. 
It  needs  but  a  moment  for  such  an  alarm  to 
become  general,  so  great  is  the  nervous  ten- 
sion at  which  men  live  on  the  firing-line. 
Terrific  fusillades  from  both  sides  followed 
while  the  listening  patrols  flattened  them- 
selves out  on  the  ground,  and  listened,  in  no 
pleasant  frame  of  mind,  to  the  bullets  whis- 
tling over  their  heads.  But  at  night,  and  under 
the  stress  of  great  excitement,  men  fire  high. 

123 


Kitchener's  Mob 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  one  is  comparatively 
safe  even  in  the  open,  when  lying  flat  on  the 
ground. 

Bombing  afl"airs  were  of  almost  nightly  occur- 
rence. Tommy  enjoyed  these  extremely  haz- 
ardous adventures  which  he  called  "Carryin' 
a  'app'orth  o'  'ate  to  Fritzie,"  a  halfpenny 
worth  of  hate,  consisting  of  six  or  a  dozen  hand- 
grenades  which  he  hurled  into  the  German 
trenches  from  the  far  side  of  their  entangle- 
ments. The  more  hardy  spirits  often  worked 
their  way  through  the  barbed  wire  and,  from  a 
position  close  under  the  parapet,  they  waited 
for  the  sound  of  voices.  When  they  had  located 
the  position  of  the  sentries,  they  tossed  their 
bombs  over  with  deadly  effect.  The  sound  of 
the  explosions  called  forth  an  immediate  and 
heavy  fire  from  sentries  near  and  far;  but  lying 
close  under  the  very  muzzles  of  the  German 
rifles,  the  bombers  were  in  no  danger  unless  a 
party  were  sent  out  in  search  of  them.  This,  of 
course,  constituted  the  chief  element  of  risk. 
The  strain  of  waiting  for  developments  was  a 
severe  one.  I  have  seen  men  come  in  from  a 
"bombing  stunt"  worn  out  and  trembling  from 

124 


Under  Cover 

nervous  fatigue.  And  yet  many  of  them  en- 
joyed it,  and  were  sent  out  night  after  night. 
The  excitement  of  the  thing  worked  into  their 
blood. 

Throughout  the  summer  there  was  a  great 
deal  more  digging  to  do  than  fighting,  for  it  was 
not  until  the  arrival  on  active  service  of  Kitch- 
ener's armies  that  the  construction  of  the  double 
line  of  reserve  or  support  trenches  was  under- 
taken. From  June  until  September  this  work 
was  pushed  rapidly  forward.  There  were  also 
trenches  to  be  made  in  advance  of  the  original 
firing-line,  for  the  purpose  of  connecting  up 
advanced  points  and  removing  dangerous  sali- 
ents. At  such  times  there  was  no  loafing  until 
we  had  reached  a  depth  sufiicient  to  protect  us 
both  from  view  and  from  fire.  We  picked  and 
shoveled  with  might  and  main,  working  in 
absolute  silence,  throwing  ourselves  flat  on  the 
ground  whenever  a  trench  rocket  was  sent  up 
from  the  German  lines.  Casualties  were  fre- 
quent, but  this  was  inevitable,  working,  as  we 
did,  in  the  open,  exposed  to  every  chance  shot 
of  an  enemy  sentry.  The  stretcher-bearers  lay 

125 


Kitchener's  Mob 

in  the  tall  grass  close  at  hand  awaiting  the 
whispered  word,  "Stretcher-bearers  this  way!" 
and  they  were  kept  busy  during  much  of  the 
time  we  were  at  work,  carrying  the  wounded 
to  the  rear. 

It  was  surprising  how  quickly  the  men  be- 
came accustomed  to  the  nerve-trying  duties  in 
the  firing-line.  Fortunately  for  Tommy,  the 
longer  he  is  in  the  army,  the  greater  becomes 
his  indifference  to  danger.  His  philosophy  is 
fatalistic.  "What  is  to  be  will  be"  is  his  only 
comment  when  one  of  his  comrades  is  killed. 
A  bullet  or  a  shell  works  with  such  lightning 
speed  that  danger  is  passed  before  one  realizes 
that  it  is  at  hand.  Therefore,  men  work  dog- 
gedly, carelessly,  and  in  the  background  of  con- 
sciousness there  is  always  that  comforting  be- 
lief, common  to  all  soldiers,  that  "others  may 
be  killed,  but  somehow,  I  shall  escape." 

The  most  important  in-trench  duty,  as  well 
as  the  most  wearisome  one  for  the  men,  is  their 
period  on  "sentry-go."  Eight  hours  in  twenty- 
four  —  four  two-hour  shifts  —  each  man  stands 
at  his  post  on  the  firing-bench,  rifle  In  hand, 
keeping  a  sharp  lookout  over  the  "front  yard." 

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Under  Cover 

At  night  he  observes  as  well  as  he  can  over  the 
top  of  the  parapet;  in  the  daytime  by  means  of 
his  periscope.  Most  of  our  large  periscopes 
were  shattered  by  keen-sighted  German  snip- 
ers. We  used  a  very  good  substitute,  one  of  the 
simplest  kind,  a  piece  of  broken  pocket  mirror 
placed  on  the  end  of  a  split  stick,  and  set  at  an 
angle  on  top  of  the  parados.  During  the  two 
hours  of  sentry  duty  we  had  nothing  to  do  other 
than  to  keep  watch  and  keep  awake.  The  latter 
was  by  far  the  more  difficult  business  at  night. 

"'Ere,  sergeant!"  Tommy  would  say,  as  the 
platoon  sergeant  felt  his  way  along  the  trench 
in  the  darkness,  "w'en  is  the  next  relief  comin' 
on?  Yer  watch  needs  a  good  blacksmith.  I  been 
on  sentry  three  hours  if  I  been  a  minute!" 

"  Never  you  mind  about  my  watch,  son !  You 
got  another  forty-five  minutes  to  do." 

"Will  you  listen  to  that,  you  blokes!  S'yJ  I 
could  myke  a  better  timepiece  out  of  an  old 
bully  tin !  I  'm  tellin'  you  straight,  I  '11  be  asleep 
w'en  you  come  'round  again!" 

But  he  is  n't.  Although  the  temptation  may 
be  great,  Tommy  is  n't  longing  for  a  court- 
martial.  When  the  platoon  officer  or  the  com- 

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Kitchener's  Mob 

pany  commander  makes  his  hourly  rounds, 
flashing  his  electric  pocket  lamp  before  him,  he 
is  ready  with  a  cheery  "Post  all  correct,  sir!" 
He  whistles  or  sings  to  himself  until,  at  last,  he 
hears  the  platoon  sergeant  waking  the  next 
relief  by  whacking  the  soles  of  their  boots  with 
his  rifle  butt. 

"Wake  up  'ere!  Come  along,  my  lads!  Your 
sentry-go!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

BILLETS 

Cave  life  had  its  alleviations,  and  chief 
among  these  was  the  pleasure  of  anticipating 
our  week  in  reserve.  We  could  look  forward  to 
this  with  certainty.  During  the  long  stalemate 
on  the  western  front,  British  military  organi- 
zation has  been  perfected  until,  in  times  of 
quiet,  it  works  with  the  monotonous  smoothness 
of  a  machine.  (Even  during  periods  of  pro- 
longed and  heavy  fighting  there  is  but  little 
confusion.  Only  twice,  during  six  months  of 
campaigning,  did  we  fail  to  receive  our  daily 
post  of  letters  and  parcels  from  England,  and 
then,  we  were  told,  the  delay  was  due  to  mine- 
sweeping  in  the  Channel.)  With  every  detail 
of  military  routine  carefully  thought  out  and 
every  possible  emergency  provided  for  in  ad- 
vance, we  lived  as  methodically  in  the  firing- 
line  as  we  had  during  our  months  of  training 
in  England. 

The  movements  of  troops  in  and  out  of  the 
trenches  were  excellently  arranged  and  timed. 

129 


Kitchener's  Mob 

The  outgoing  battalion  was  prepared  to  move 
back  as  soon  as  the  "relief"  had  taken  place. 
The  trench  water-cans  had  been  filled,  —  an 
act  of  courtesy  between  battalions,  —  the 
dugouts  thoroughly  cleaned,  and  the  refuse 
buried.  The  process  of  "taking  over"  was  a 
very  brief  one.  The  sentries  of  the  incoming 
battalion  were  posted,  and  listening  patrols 
sent  out  to  relieve  those  of  the  outgoing  battal- 
ion, which  then  moved  down  the  communica- 
tion trenches,  the  men  happy  in  the  prospect 
of  a  night  of  undisturbed  sleep. 

Second  only  to  sleep  in  importance  was  the 
fortnightly  bath.  Sometimes  we  cleansed  our- 
selves, as  best  we  could,  in  muddy  little  duck 
ponds,  populous  with  frogs  and  green  with 
scum;  but  oh,  the  joy  when  our  march  ended 
at  a  military  bathhouse!  The  Government  had 
provided  these  whenever  possible,  and  for  sev- 
eral weeks  we  were  within  marching  distance 
of  one.  There  we  received  a  fresh  change  of 
underclothing,  and  our  uniforms  were  fumi- 
gated while  we  splashed  and  scrubbed  in  great 
vats  of  clean  warm  water.  The  order,  "Every- 
body out!"  was  obeyed  with  great  reluctance, 

130 


Billets 

and  usually  not  until  the  bath  attendants  of  the 
Army  Service  Corps  enforced  it  with  the  cold- 
water  hose.  Tommy,  who  has  a  song  for  every 
important  ceremonial,  never  sang,  "Rule  Brit- 
annia" with  the  enthusiasm  which  marked  his 
rendition  of  the  following  chorus :  — 

"Whi — ter  than  the  whitewash  on  the  wall! 
Whi — ter  than  the  whitewash  on  the  wall! 
If  yer  leadin'  us  to  slaughter 
Let  us  'ave  our  soap  an'  water  —  first! 
Then  we'll  be  whiter  than  the  whitewash 
on  the  wall!" 

When  out  of  the  firing-line  we  washed  and 
mended  our  clothing  and  scraped  a  week's  ac- 
cumulation of  mud  from  our  uniforms.  Before 
breakfast  we  were  inflicted  with  the  old  pun- 
ishment, Swedish  drill.  "Gott  strafe  Sweden!" 
Tommy  would  say  as  he  puffed  and  perspired 
under  a  hot  August  sun,  but  he  was  really  glad 
that  he  had  no  choice  but  to  submit.  In  the 
trenches  there  was  little  opportunity  for  vigor- 
ous exercise,  and  our  arms  and  legs  became 
stiff  with  the  long  inactivity.  Throughout  the 
mornings  we  were  busy  with  a  multitude  of 
duties.  Arms  and  equipment  were  cleaned 
and  inspected,  machine  guns  thoroughly  over- 

131 


Kitchener's  Mob 

hauled,  gas  helmets  sprayed;  and  there  was 
frequent  instruction  in  bomb-throwing  and 
bayonet-fighting  in  preparation  for  the  day  to 
which  every  soldier  looks  forward  with  some 
misgiving,  but  with  increasing  confidence  — 
the  day  when  the  enemy  shall  be  driven  out  of 
France. 

Classes  in  grenade-fighting  were  under  the 
supervision  of  officers  of  the  Royal  Engineers. 
In  the  early  days  of  the  war  there  was  but  one 
grenade  in  use,  and  that  a  crude  aff"air  made  by 
the  soldiers  themselves.  An  empty  jam  tin  was 
filled  with  explosive  and  scrap  iron,  and  tightly 
bound  with  wire.  A  fuse  was  attached  and  the 
bomb  was  ready  for  use.  But  England  early 
anticipated  the  importance  which  grenade- 
fighting  was  to  play  in  trench  warfare.  Her 
experts  in  explosives  were  set  to  work,  and  by 
the  time  we  were  ready  for  active  service,  ten 
or  a  dozen  varieties  of  bombs  were  in  use,  all 
of  them  made  in  the  munition  factories  in  Eng- 
land. The  "hairbrush,"  the  "lemon  bomb," 
the  "cricket  ball,"  and  the  "policeman's  trun- 
cheon "  were  the  most  important  of  these,  all 
of  them  so-called  because  of  their  resemblance 

132 


Billets 

to  the  articles  for  which  they  were  named.  The 
first  three  were  exploded  by  a  time-fuse  set  for 
from  three  to  five  seconds.  The  fourth  was  a 
percussion  bomb,  which  had  long  cloth  stream- 
ers fastened  to  the  handle  to  insure  greater  ac- 
curacy in  throwing.  The  men  became  remark- 
ably accurate  at  a  distance  of  thirty  to  forty 
yards.  Old  cricketers  were  especially  good, 
for  the  bomb  must  be  thrown  overhand,  with 
a  full-arm  movement. 

Instruction  in  bayonet-fighting  was  made 
as  realistic  as  possible.  Upon  a  given  signal,  we 
rushed  forward,  jumping  in  and  out  of  succes- 
sive lines  of  trenches,  where  dummy  figures  — 
clad  in  the  uniforms  of  German  foot  soldiers,  to 
give  zest  to  the  game  —  took  our  blades  both 
front  and  rear  with  conciliatory  indiff'erence. 

In  the  afternoon  Tommy's  time  was  his  own. 
He  could  sleep,  or  wander  along  the  country 
roads,  —  within  a  prescribed  area,  —  or,  which 
was  more  often  the  case,  indulge  in  those  games 
of  chance  which  were  as  the  breath  of  life  to 
him.  Pay-day  was  the  event  of  the  week  in 
billets  because  it  gave  him  the  wherewithal  to 
satisfy  the  promptings  of  his  sporting  blood. 

133 


Kitchener's  Mob 

Our  fortnightly  allowance  of  from  five  to  ten 
francs  was  not  a  princely  sum;  but  in  pennies 
and  halfpennies,  it  was  quite  enough  to  pro- 
vide many  hours  of  absorbing  amusement. 
Tommy  gambled  because  he  could  not  help  it. 
When  he  had  no  money  he  wagered  his  allowance 
of  cigarettes  or  his  share  of  the  daily  jam  ration. 
I  believe  that  the  appeal  which  war  made  to 
him  was  largely  one  to  his  sporting  instincts. 
Life  and  Death  were  playing  stakes  for  his  soul 
with  the  betting  odds  about  even. 

The  most  interesting  feature  of  our  life  in 
billets  was  the  contact  which  it  gave  us  with 
the  civilian  population  who  remained  in  the  war 
zone,  either  because  they  had  no  place  else  to  go, 
or  because  of  that  indomitable,  unconquerable 
spirit  which  is  characteristic  of  the  French, 
There  are  few  British  soldiers  along  the  western 
front  who  do  not  have  memories  of  the  heroic 
mothers  who  clung  to  their  ruined  homes  as 
long  as  there  was  a  wall  standing.  It  was  one  of 
these  who  summed  up  for  me,  in  five  words,  all 
the  heart-breaking  tragedy  of  war. 

She  kept  a  little  shop,  in  Armentieres,  on  one 
of  the  streets  leading  to  the  firing-line.    We 

134 


Billets 

often  stopped  there,  when  going  up  to  the 
trenches,  to  buy  loaves  of  delicious  French 
bread.  She  had  candles  for  sale  as  well,  and 
,  chocolate,  and  packets  of  stationery.  Her  stock 
was  exhausted  daily,  and  in  some  way  replen- 
ished daily.  I  think  she  made  long  journeys  to 
the  other  side  of  the  town,  bringing  back  fresh 
supplies  in  a  pushcart  which  stood  outside 
her  door.  Her  cottage,  which  was  less  than  a 
mile  from  our  first-line  trenches,  was  partly 
in  ruins.  I  could  n't  understand  her  being  there 
in  such  danger.  Evidently  it  was  with  the  con- 
sent of  the  military  authorities.  There  were 
other  women  living  on  the  same  street;  but 
somehow,  she  was  different  from  the  others. 
There  was  a  spiritual  fineness  about  her  which 
impressed  one  at  once.  Her  eyes  were  dry  as 
though  the  tears  had  been  drained  from  them, 
to  the  last  drop,  long  ago. 

One  day,  calling  for  a  packet  of  candles,  I 
found  her  standing  at  the  barricaded  window 
which  looks  toward  the  trenches,  and  the  deso- 
late towns  and  villages  back  of  the  German 
lines.  My  curiosity  got  the  better  of  my  court- 
esy, and  I  asked  her,  in  my  poor  French,  why 

135 


Kitchener's  Mob 

she  was  living  there.  She  was' silent  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  she  pointed  toward  that  part 
of  France  which  was  on  the  other  side  of  the 
world  to  us. 

"Monsieur!  Mes  enfants!   La-bas!" 

Her  children  were  over  there,  or  had  been  at 
the  outbreak  of  the  war.  That  is  all  that  she 
told  me  of  her  story,  and  I  would  have  been  a 
beast  to  have  asked  more.  In  some  way  she  had 
become  separated  from  them,  and  for  nearly  a 
year  she  had  been  watching  there,  not  knowing 
whether  her  little  family  was  living  or  dead. 

To  many  of  the  soldiers  she  was  just  a  plain, 
thrifty  little  Frenchwoman  who  knew  not  the 
meaning  of  fear,  willing  to  risk  her  life  daily, 
that  she  might  put  by  something  for  the  long 
hard  years  which  would  follow  the  war.  To 
me  she  is  the  Spirit  of  France,  splendid,  superb 
France.  But  more  than  this  she  is  the  Spirit 
of  Mother-love  which  wars  can  never  alter. 

Strangely  enough,  I  had  not  thought  of  the 
firing-line  as  a  boundary,  a  limit,  during  all  those 
weeks  of  trench  warfare.  Henceforth  it  had  a 
new  meaning  for  me.  I  realized  how  completely 
it  cut  Europe  in  half,  separating  friends  and  rel- 

136 


Billets 

atives  as  thousands  of  miles  of  ocean  could  not 
have  done.  Roads  crossed  from  one  side  to  the 
other,  but  they  were  barricaded  with  sandbags 
and  barbed-wire  entanglements.  At  night  they 
were  deluged  with  shrapnel  and  the  cobble- 
stones were  chipped  and  scarred  with  machine- 
gun  bullets. 

Tommy  had  a  ready  sympathy  for  the  women 
and  children  who  lived  near  the  trenches.  I 
remember  many  incidents  which  illustrate 
abundantly  his  quick  understanding  of  the 
hardship  and  danger  of  their  lives.  Once,  at 
Armentieres,  we  were  marching  to  the  baths, 
when  the  German  artillery  were  shelling  the 
town  in  the  usual  hit-or-miss  fashion.  The 
enemy  knew,  of  course,  that  many  of  our  troops 
in  reserve  were  billeted  there,  and  they  searched 
for  them  daily.  Doubtless  they  would  have  de- 
stroyed the  town  long  ago  had  it  not  been  for 
the  fact  that  Lille,  one  of  their  own  most  im- 
portant bases,  is  within  such  easy  range  of  our 
batteries.  As  it  was,  they  bombarded  it  as 
heavily  as  they  dared,  and  on  this  particular 
morning,  they  were  sending  them  over  too  fre- 
quently for  comfort. 

137 


Kitchener's  Mob 

Some  of  the  shells  were  exploding  close  to 
our  line  of  march,  but  the  boys  tramped  along 
with  that  nonchalant  air  which  they  assume 
in  times  of  danger.  One  immense  shell  struck 
an  empty  house  less  than  a  block  away  and  sent 
the  masonry  flying  in  every  direction.  The  cloud 
of  brick  dust  shone  like  gold  in  the  sun.  A  mo- 
ment later,  a  fleshy  peasant  woman,  wearing 
wooden  shoes,  turned  out  of  an  adjoining  street 
and  ran  awkwardly  toward  the  scene  of  the  ex- 
plosion. Her  movements  were  so  clumsy  and 
slow,  in  proportion  to  the  great  exertion  she 
was  making,  that  at  any  other  time  the  sight 
would  have  been  ludicrous.  Now  it  was  inevit- 
able that  such  a  sight  should  first  appeal  to 
Tommy's  sense  of  humor,  and  thoughtlessly 
the  boys  started  laughing  and  shouting  at 
her. 

"Go  it,  old  dear!  Yer  makin'  a  grand  race!" 

"Two  to  one  on  Liza!" 

"The  other  w'y,  ma!  That's  the  wrong 
direction!  Yer  runnin'  right  into  'em!" 

She  gave  no  heed,  and  a  moment  later  we  saw 
her  gather  up  a  little  girl  from  a  doorstep,  hug- 
ging and  comforting  her,  and  shielding  her  with 

138 


Billets 

her  body,  instinctively,  at  the  sound  of  an- 
other exploding  shell.  The  laughter  in  the  ranks 
stopped  as  though  every  man  had  been  sud- 
denly struck  dumb. 

They  were  courageous,  those  women  in  the 
firing-line.  Their  thoughts  were  always  for 
their  husbands  and  sons  and  brothers  who  were 
fighting  side  by  side  with  us.  Meanwhile,  they 
kept  their  little  shops  and  estaminets  open  for 
the  soldiers'  trade  and  made  a  brave  show  of 
living  in  the  old  way.  In  Armentieres  a  few 
old  men  lent  their  aid  in  keeping  up  the  pre- 
tense, but  the  feeble  little  trickle  of  civilian  life 
made  scarcely  an  impression  in  the  broad  cur- 
rent of  military  activity.  A  solitary  postman, 
with  a  mere  handful  of  letters,  made  his  morn- 
ing rounds  of  echoing  streets,  and  a  bent  old 
man  with  newspapers  hobbled  slowly  along 
the  Rue  Sadi-Carnot  shouting,  "Le  Matin!  Le 
Journal!  "to  boarded  windows  and  bolted  doors. 
Meanwhile,  we  marched  back  and  forth  between 
billets  in  the  town  and  trenches  just  outside. 
And  the  last  thing  which  we  saw  upon  leaving 
the  town,  and  the  first  upon  returning,  was 
the  lengthening  row  of  new-made  graves  close 

139 


Kitchener's  Mob 

to  a  sunny  wall  in  the  garden  of  the  ruined  con- 
vent. It  was  a  pathetic  little  burial  plot, 
filled  with  the  bodies  of  women  and  children 
who  had  been  killed  in  German  bombardments 
of  the  town. 

And  thus  for  more  than  three  months,  while 
we  were  waiting  for  Fritzie  to  "come  out,"  we 
adapted  ourselves  to  the  changing  conditions 
of  trench  life  and  trench  warfare,  with  a  read- 
iness which  surprised  and  gratified  us.  Our 
very  practical  training  in  England  had  prepared 
us,  in  a  measure,  for  simple  and  primitive  liv- 
ing. But  even  with  such  preparation  we  had 
constantly  to  revise  downward  our  standards. 
We  lived  without  comforts  which  formerly  we 
had  regarded  as  absolutely  essential.  We  lived 
a  life  so  crude  and  rough  that  our  army  experi- 
ences in  England  seemed  Utopian  by  compari- 
son. But  we  throve  splendidly.  A  government, 
paternalistic  in  its  solicitude  for  our  welfare, 
had  schooled  our  bodies  to  withstand  hardships 
and  to  endure  privations.  In  England  we  had 
been  inoculated  and  vaccinated  whether  we 
would  or  no,  and  the  result  was  that  fevers 
were  practically  non-existent  in  the  trenches. 

140 


Billets 

What  little  sickness  there  was  was  due  to  in- 
clement weather  rather  than  to  unsanitary  con- 
ditions. 

Although  there  were  sad  gaps  in  our  ranks, 
the  trench  and  camp  fevers  prevalent  in  other 
wars  were  not  responsible  for  them.  Bullets, 
shells,  and  bombs  took  their  toll  day  by  day, 
but  so  gradually  that  we  had  been  given  time 
to  forget  that  we  had  ever  known  the  security 
of  civilian  life.  We  were  soon  to  experience  the 
indescribable  horrors  of  modern  warfare  at  its 
worst;  to  be  living  from  morning  until  evening 
and  from  dusk  to  dawn,  looking  upon  a  new  day 
with  a  feeling  of  wonder  that  we  had  survived 
so  long. 

About  the  middle  of  September  it  became 
clear  to  us  that  the  big  drive  was  at  hand. 
There  was  increased  artillery  activity  along 
the  entire  front.  The  men  noted  with  great 
satisfaction  that  the  shells  from  our  own  bat- 
teries were  of  larger  calibre.  This  was  a  welcome 
indication  that  England  was  at  last  meeting  the 
longfelt  need  for  high  explosives. 

"Lloyd  George  ain't  been  asleep,"  some 
unshaven  seer  would  say,  nodding  his  head 

141 


Kitchener's  Mob 

wisely.  "'E's  a  long  w'ile  gettin'  ready,  but 
w'en  'e  is  ready,  there's  suthin'  a-go'n'  to 
drop!" 

There  was  a  feeling  of  excitement  every- 
where. The  men  looked  to  their  rifles  with 
greater  Interest.  They  examined  more  carefully 
their  bandoliers  of  ammunition  and  their  gas 
helmets;  and  they  were  thoughtful  about  keep- 
ing their  metal  pocket  mirrors  and  their  cigar- 
ette cases  in  their  left-hand  breast  pockets,  for 
any  Tommy  can  tell  you  of  miraculous  escapes 
from  death  due  to  such  a  protective  armoring 
over  the  heart. 

The  thunder  of  guns  increased  with  every 
passing  day.  The  fire  appeared  to  be  evenly 
distributed  over  many  miles  of  frontage.  In 
moments  of  comparative  quiet  along  our  sector, 
we  could  hear  them  muttering  and  rumbling 
miles  away  to  our  right  and  left.  We  awaited 
developments  with  the  greatest  Impatience, 
for  we  knew  that  this  general  bombardment 
was  but  a  preliminary  one  for  the  purpose  of 
concealing,  until  the  last  moment,  the  plan  of 
attack,  the  portion  of  the  front  where  the  great 
artillery  concentration  would  be  made  and  the 

142 


Billets 

infantry  assault  pushed  home.  Then  came  sud- 
den orders  to  move.  Within  twenty-four  hours 
the  roads  were  filled  with  the  incoming  troops 
of  a  new  division.  We  made  a  rapid  march  to 
a  rail-head,  entrained,  and  were  soon  moving 
southward  by  an  indirect  route;  southward, 
toward  the  sound  of  the  guns,  to  take  an  in- 
conspicuous part  in  the  battle  at  Loos. 


CHAPTER  X 

NEW   LODGINGS 
I.    MOVING   IN 

We  were  wet  and  tired  and  cold  and  hungry, 
for  we  had  left  the  train  miles  back  of  the  fir- 
ing-line and  had  been  marching  through  the 
rain  since  early  morning;  but,  as  the  sergeant 
said,  "A  bloke  standin'  by  the  side  o'  the  road, 
watchin'  this  'ere  column  pass,  would  think  we 
was  a-go'n'  to  a  Sunday-school  picnic."  The 
roads  were  filled  with  endless  processions  of 
singing,  shouting  soldiers.  Seen  from  a  distance 
the  long  columns  gave  the  appearance  of  im- 
posing strength.  One  thought  of  them  as  bat- 
talions, brigades,  divisions,  cohesive  parts  of  a 
great  fighting  machine.  But  when  our  lines  of 
march  crossed,  when  we  halted  to  make  way 
for  each  other,  what  an  absorbing  pageant  of 
personality!  Each  rank  was  a  series  of  intimate 
pictures.  Everywhere  there  was  laughing,  sing- 
ing, a  merry  minstrelsy  of  mouth-organs. 

The  jollity  In  my  own  part  of  the  line  was 
doubtless  a  picture  In  little  of  what  was  hap- 

144 


New  Lodgings 


pening  elsewhere.  We  were  anticipating  the 
exciting  times  just  at  hand.  Mac,  who  was 
blown  to  pieces  by  a  shell  a  few  hours  later, 
was  dancing  in  and  out  of  the  ranks  singing,  — 

"Oh!   Won't  It  be  joyful! 
Oh!   Won't  it  be  joyful!" 

Preston,  who  was  killed  at  the  same  time,  threw 
his  rifle  in  the  air  and  caught  it  again  in  sheer 
excess  of  animal  spirits.  Three  rollicking  lads, 
all  of  whom  we  buried  during  the  week  in  the 
same  shell  hole  under  the  same  wooden  cross, 
stumbled  with  an  exaggerated  show  of  utter 
weariness  singing,  — 

"We  never  knew  till  now  how  muddy  mud  is, 
We  never  knew  how  muddy  mud  could  be." 

And  little  Charley  Harrison,  who  had  fibbed 
bravely  about  his  age  to  the  recruiting  officers, 
trudged  contentedly  along,  his  rifle  slung  jaunt- 
ily over  his  shoulder,  and  munched  army  bis- 
cuit with  all  the  relish  of  an  old  campaigner. 
Several  days  later  he  said  good-bye  to  us,  and 
made  the  journey  back  the  same  road,  this 
time  in  a  motor  ambulance;  and  as  I  write,  he 
is  hobbling  about  a  London  hospital  ward,  one 
trouser  leg  pathetically  empty. 

145- 


Kitchener's  Mob 

I  remember  that  march  in  the  light  of  our 
later  experiences,  In  the  light  of  the  official 
report  of  the  total  British  casualties  at  Loos: 
sixty  thousand  British  lads  killed,  wounded, 
and  missing.  Marching  four  abreast,  a  column 
of  casualties  miles  in  length.  I  see  them  plod- 
ding light-heartedly  through  the  mud  as  they 
did  on  that  gray  September  day,  their  faces 
wet  with  the  rain,  "  an'  a  bloke  standin'  by  the 
side  of  the  road  would  think  they  was  a-go'n' 
to  a  Sunday-school  picnic." 

The  sergeant  was  in  a  talkative  mood. 

"Lissen  to  them  guns  barkin'!  We're  in  for 
it  this  time,  straight!" 

Then,  turning  to  the  men  behind,  — 

"  'Ave  you  got  yer  wills  made  out,  you  lads  ^ 
You're  a-go'n'  to  see  a  scrap  presently,  an'  it 
ain't  a-go'n'  to  be  no  flea-bite,  I  give  you  my 
word!" 

"Right  you  are,  sergeant!  I'm  leavln'  me 
razor  to  'is  Majesty.   'Ope  'e'll  tyke  the  'int." 

"Strike  me  pink,  sergeant!  You  gettin'  cold 
feet?" 

"Less  sing  'im,  *I  want  to  go  'ome.'  Get  'im 
to  cryin'  like  a  baby." 

146 


New  Lodgings 


"W'ere's  yer  mouth-organ,  Ginger?" 
"RIght-0!     Myke  it  weepy  now!      Slow 
march!" 

"I  —  want  to  go  'omel 
I  —  want  to  go  'ome! 

Jack-Johnsons,  coal-boxes,  and  shrapnel,  oh.  Lor'! 
I  don't  want  to  go  in  the  trenches  no  more. 
Send  me  across  the  sea 
Were  the  Allemand  can't  shoot  me. 
Oh,  my!  I  don't  want  to  die! 
I  —  want  to  go  'ome!" 

It  Is  one  of  the  most  plaintive  and  yearning 
of  soldiers'  songs.  Jack-Johnsons  and  coal- 
boxes  are  two  greatly  dreaded  types  of  high 
explosive  shells  which  Tommy  would  much 
rather  sing  about  than  meet. 

"WIte,"  the  sergeant  said,  smiling  grimly; 
"just  wIte  tin  we  reach  the  end  o'  this  'ere 
march !  You  '11  be  a-slngin'  that  song  out  o'  the 
other  side  o'  yer  faces." 

We  halted  In  the  evening  at  a  little  mining 
village,  and  were  billeted  for  the  night  In  houses, 
stables,  and  even  In  the  water-soaked  fields, 
for  there  was  not  sufficient  accommodation  for 
all  of  us.  With  a  dozen  of  my  comrades  I  slept 
on  the  floor  In  the  kitchen  of  a  miner's  cottage, 

147 


Kitchener's  Mob 

and  listened,  far  into  the  night,  to  the  constant 
procession  of  motor  ambulances,  the  tramp  of 
marching  feet,  the  thunder  of  guns,  the  rattle 
of  windows,  and  the  sound  of  breaking  glass. 

The  following  day  we  spent  in  cleaning  our 
rifles,  which  were  caked  with  rust,  and  in  wash- 
ing our  clothes.  We  had  to  put  these,  still  wet, 
into  our  packs,  for  at  dusk  we  fell  in,  in  column 
of  route,  along  the  village  street,  when  our  offi- 
cers told  us  what  was  before  us.  I  remember 
how  vividly  and  honestly  one  of  them  described 
the  situation. 

"Listen  carefully,  men.  We  are  moving  off 
in  a  few  moments,  to  take  over  captured  Ger- 
man trenches  on  the  left  of  Loos.  No  one  knows 
yet  just  how  the  land  lies  there.  The  reports 
we  have  had  are  confused  and  rather  conflict- 
ing. The  boys  you  are  going  to  relieve  have 
been  having  a  hard  time.  The  trenches  are  full 
of  dead.  Those  who  are  left  are  worn  out  with 
the  strain,  and  they  need  sleep.  They  won't 
care  to  stop  long  after  you  come  in,  so  you  must 
not  expect  much  information  from  them.  You 
will  have  to  find  out  things  for  yourselves.  But 
I  know  you  well  enough  to  feel  certain  that  you 

148 


New  Lodgings 


will.  From  now  on  you'll  not  have  it  easy. 
You  will  have  to  sit  tight  under  a  heavy  fire 
from  the  German  batteries.  You  will  have  to 
repulse  counter-attacks,  for  they  will  make 
every  effort  to  retake  those  trenches.  But  re- 
member! You're  British  soldiers!  Whatever 
happens  you've  got  to  hang  on!" 

We  marched  down  a  road  nearly  a  foot  deep 
in  mud.  It  had  been  churned  to  a  thick  paste 
by  thousands  of  feet  and  all  the  heavy  wheel 
traffic  incident  to  the  business  of  war.  The  rain 
was  still  coming  down  steadily,  and  it  was 
pitch  dark,  except  for  the  reflected  light,  on  the 
low-hanging  clouds,  of  the  flashes  from  the 
guns  of  our  batteries  and  those  of  the  bursting 
shells  of  the  enemy.  We  halted  frequently,  to 
make  way  for  long  files  of  ambulances  which 
moved  as  rapidly  as  the  darkness  and  the  aw- 
ful condition  of  the  roads  would  permit.  I 
counted  twenty  of  them  during  one  halt,  and 
then  stopped,  thinking  of  the  pain  of  the  poor 
fellows  inside,  their  wounds  wrenched  and 
torn  by  the  constant  pitching  and  jolting.  We 
had  vivid  glimpses  of  them  by  the  light  from 
flashing  guns,  and  of  the  Red  Cross  attendants 

149 


Kitchener's  Mob 

at  the  rear  of  the  cars,  steadying  the  upper 
tiers  of  stretchers  on  either  side.  The  heavy 
Garrison  artillery  was  by  this  time  far  behind 
us.  The  big  shells  went  over  with  a  hollow 
roar  like  the  sound  of  an  express  train  heard  at 
a  distance.  Field  artillery  was  concealed  In  the 
ruins  of  houses  on  every  side.  The  guns  were 
firing  at  a  tremendous  rate,  the  shells  exploding 
several  miles  away  with  a  sound  of  jarring 
thunder  claps. 

In  addition  to  the  ambulances  there  was  a 
constant  stream  of  outgoing  traffic  of  other 
kinds:  dispatch  riders  on  motor  cycles,  feeling 
their  way  cautiously  along  the  side  of  the  road; 
ammunition  supply  and  battalion  transport 
wagons,  the  horses  rearing  and  plunging  in 
the  darkness.  We  approached  a  crossroad  and 
halted  to  make  way  for  some  batteries  of  field 
pieces  moving  to  new  positions.  They  went  by 
on  a  slippery  cobbled  road,  the  horses  at  a  dead 
gallop.  In  the  red  llghtenlngs  of  heavy-gun 
fire  they  looked  like  a  series  of  splendid  sculp- 
tured groups. 

We  moved  on  and  halted,  moved  on  again, 
stumbled  Into  ditches  to  get  out  of  the  way  of 

ISO 


New  Lodgings 

headquarters  cars  and  motor  lorries,  jumped 
up  and  pushed  on.  Every  step  through  the 
thick  mud  was  taken  with  an  effort.  We  fre- 
quently lost  touch  with  the  troops  ahead  of  us 
and  would  have  to  march  at  the  double  in  order 
to  catch  up.  I  was  fast  getting  into  that  de- 
spondent, despairing  frame  of  mind  which  often 
follows  great  physical  weariness,  when  I  remem- 
bered a  bit  of  wisdom  out  of  a  book  by  William 
James  which  I  had  read  several  years  before. 
He  had  said,  in  effect,  that  men  have  layers  of 
energy,  reserves  of  nervous  force,  which  they  are 
rarely  called  upon  to  use,  but  which  are,  never- 
theless, assets  of  great  value  in  times  of  strain. 
I  had  occasion  to  test  the  truth  of  this  state- 
ment during  that  night  march,  and  at  intervals 
later,  when  I  felt  that  I  had  reached  the  end 
of  my  resources  of  strength.  And  I  found  it  to 
be  practical  wisdom  which  stood  me  in  good 
stead  on  more  than  one  occasion. 

We  halted  to  wait  for  our  trench  guides  at 
the  village  of  Vermelles,  about  three  miles  back 
of  our  lines.  The  men  lay  down  thankfully  In 
the  mud  and  many  were  soon  asleep  despite  the 
terrific  noise.    Our  batteries,  concealed  in  the 

151 


Kitchener's  Mob 

ruins  of  houses,  were  keeping  up  a  steady  fire 
and  the  German  guns  were  replying  almost  as 
hotly.  The  weird  flashes  lit  up  the  shattered 
walls  with  a  fascinating,  bizarre  effect.  By  their 
light,  I  saw  men  lying  with  their  heads  thrown 
back  over  their  pack-sacks,  their  rifles  leaning 
across  their  bodies;  others  standing  in  attitudes 
of  suspended  animation.  The  noise  was  deafen- 
ing. One  was  thrown  entirely  upon  his  own 
resources  for  comfort  and  companionship,  for 
it  was  impossible  to  converse.  While  we  were 
waiting  for  the  order  to  move,  a  homeless  dog 
put  his  cold  nose  into  my  hand.  I  patted  him 
and  he  crept  up  close  beside  me.  Every  muscle 
in  his  body  was  quivering.  I  wanted  to  console 
him  in  his  own  language.  But  I  knew  very  little 
French,  and  I  should  have  had  to  shout  into 
his  ear  at  the  top  of  my  voice  to  have  made  my- 
self heard.  When  we  marched  on  I  lost  him. 
And  I  never  saw  him  again. 

There  was  a  further  march  of  two  and  a  half 
miles  over  open  country,  the  scene  of  the  great 
battle.  The  ground  was  a  maze  of  abandoned 
trenches  and  was  pitted  with  shell  holes.  The 
clay  was  so  slippery  and  we  were  so  heavily 

152 


New  Lodgings 

loaded  that  we  fell  down  at  every  step.  Some  of 
the  boys  told  me  afterward  that  I  cursed  like 
blue  blazes  all  the  way  up.  I  was  not  conscious 
of  this,  but  I  can  readily  understand  that  it 
may  have  been  true.  At  any  rate,  as  a  result 
of  that  march,  I  lost  what  reputation  I  had  for 
being  temperate  in  the  use  of  profanity. 

We  crossed  what  had  been  the  first  line  of 
British  trenches,  which  marked  the  starting- 
point  of  the  advance,  and  from  there  the 
ground  was  covered  with  the  bodies  of  our  com- 
rades, men  who  had  "  done  their  bit,"  as  Tommy 
says,  and  would  never  go  home  again.  Some 
were  huddled  in  pathetic  little  groups  of  two 
or  three  as  they  might  have  crept  together  for 
companionship  before  they  died.  Some  were 
lying  face  downward  just  as  they  had  fallen. 
Others  in  attitudes  revealing  dreadful  suffering. 
Many  were  hanging  upon  the  tangles  of  Ger- 
man barbed  wire  which  the  heaviest  of  bom- 
bardments never  completely  destroys.  We  saw 
them  only  by  the  light  of  distant  trench  rockets 
and  stumbled  on  them  and  over  them  when 
the  darkness  returned. 

It  is   an  unpleasant  experience,   marching 

153 


Kitchener's  Mob 

under  fire,  on  top  of  the  ground,  even  though  it 
is  dark  and  the  enemy  is  sheUing  haphazardly. 
We  machine  gunners  were  always  heavily 
loaded.  In  addition  to  the  usual  infantryman's 
burden,  we  had  our  machine  guns  to  carry,  and 
our  ammunition,  water  supply,  tools  and  instru- 
ments. We  were  very  eager  to  get  under  cover, 
but  we  had  to  go  slowly.  By  the  time  we 
reached  our  trench  we  were  nearly  exhausted. 
The  men  whom  we  were  to  relieve  were 
packed  up,  ready  to  move  out,  when  we  arrived. 
We  threw  our  rifles  and  equipment  on  the  par- 
apet and  stood  close  to  the  side  of  the  trench 
to  allow  them  to  pass.  They  were  cased  in 
mud.  Their  faces,  which  I  saw  by  the  glow  of 
matches  or  lighted  cigarettes,  were  haggard 
and  worn.  A  week's  growth  of  beard  gave  them 
a  wild  and  barbaric  appearance.  They  talked 
eagerly.  They  were  hysterically  cheerful ;  vol- 
uble from  sheer  nervous  reaction.  They  had 
the  prospect  of  getting  away  for  a  little  while 
from  the  sickening  horrors :  the  sight  of  maimed 
and  shattered  bodies,  the  deafening  noise,  the 
nauseating  odor  of  decaying  flesh.  As  they 
moved  out  there  were  the  usual  conversations 

154 


New  Lodgings 

which  take  place  between  incoming  and  out- 
going troops. 

"Wot  sort  of  a  week  you  'ad,  mate?" 
"It  ain't  been  a  week,  son;  it's  been  a  life- 
time!" 

"Lucky  fer  us  you  blokes  come  in  just  w'en 
you  did.  We  've  about  reached  the  limit." 
"'Ow  far  we  got  to  go  fer  water?" 
"'Bout  two  miles.  Awful  journey!  Tyke 
you  all  night  to  do  it.  You  got  to  stop  every 
minute,  they's  so  much  traffic  along  that 
trench.  Go  down  Stanley  Road  about  five 
'unnerd  yards,  turn  off  to  yer  left  on  Essex 
Alley,  then  yer  first  right.  Brings  you  right 
out  by  the  'ouse  w'ere  the  pump  is." 

"'Ere's  a  straight  tip!  Send  yer  water 
fatigue  down  early  in  the  mornin' :  three  o'clock 
at  the  latest.  They's  thousands  usin'  that 
well  an'  she  goes  dry  arter  a  little  w'ile." 

"You  blokes  want  any  souvenirs,  all  you  got 
to  do  is  pick  'em  up :  'elmets,  revolvers,  rifles, 
German  di'ries.  You  wite  till  mornin'.  You'll 
see  plenty." 

"Is  this  the  last  line  o'  Fritzie's  trenches?" 
"Can't  tell  you,  mate.    All  we  know  is,  we 

155 


Kitchener's  Mob 

got  'ere  some'ow  an'  we  been  a-'oldin'  on.  My 
Gawd!  It's  been  awful!  They  calmed  down  a 
bit  to-night.  You  blokes  is  lucky  comin'  in 
just  w'en  you  did." 

"I  ain't  got  a  pal  left  out  o'  my  section. 
You'll  see  some  of  'em.  We  ain't  'ad  time  to 
bury  'em." 

They  were  soon  gone  and  we  were  left  in 
ignorance  of  the  situation.  We  knew  only  ap- 
proximately the  direction  of  the  living  enemy 
and  the  dead  spoke  to  us  only  in  dumb  show, 
telling  us  unspeakable  things  about  the  horrors 
of  modern  warfare. 

Fortunately  for  us,  the  fire  of  the  German 
batteries,  during  our  first  night  in  captured 
trenches,  was  directed  chiefly  upon  positions 
to  our  right  and  left.  The  shells  from  our  own 
batteries  were  exploding  far  in  advance  of  our 
sector  of  trench,  and  we  judged  from  this  that 
we  were  holding  what  had  been  the  enemy's 
last  line,  and  that  the  British  artillery  were 
shelling  the  line  along  which  they  would  dig 
themselves  in  anew.  We  felt  more  certain  of 
this  later  in  the  night  when  working  parties 
were  sent  from  the  battalion  to  a  point  twelve 

156 


New  Lodgings 

hundred  yards  in  front  of  the  trenches  we  were 
then  holding.  They  were  to  dig  a  new  Hne  there, 
to  connect  with  intrenchments  which  had  been 
pushed  forward  on  either  side  of  us. 

At  daybreak  we  learned  that  we  were 
slightly  to  the  left  of  Hill  70.  Hulluch,  a  small 
village  still  in  possession  of  the  Germans,  was 
to  our  left  front.  Midway  between  Hill  70  and 
Hulluch  and  immediately  to  the  front  of  our 
position,  there  was  a  long  stretch  of  open  coun- 
try which  sloped  gently  forward  for  six  or 
eight  hundred  yards,  and  then  rose  gradually 
toward  the  sky-line.  In  the  first  assault  the 
British  troops  had  pushed  on  past  the  trenches 
we  were  holding  and  had  advanced  up  the  op- 
posite slope,  nearly  a  mile  farther  on.  There 
they  started  to  dig  themselves  in,  but  an  un- 
fortunate delay  in  getting  forward  had  given 
the  enemy  time  to  collect  a  strong  force  of  local 
reserves  behind  his  second  line,  which  was 
several  hundred  yards  beyond.  So  heavy  a  fire 
had  been  concentrated  upon  them  that  the 
British  troops  had  been  forced  to  retire  to  the 
line  we  were  then  occupying.  They  had  met 
with  heavy  losses  both  in  advancing  and  re- 

157 


Kitchener's  Mob 

tiring,  and  the  ground  in  front  of  us  for  nearly 
a  mile  was  strewn  with  bodies.  We  did  not 
learn  all  of  this  at  once.  We  knew  nothing  of 
our  exact  position  during  the  first  night,  but 
as  there  appeared  to  be  no  enemy  within 
striking  distance  of  our  immediate  front,  we 
stood  on  the  firing-benches  vainly  trying  to 
get  our  bearings.  About  one  o'clock,  we  wit- 
nessed the  fascinating  spectacle  of  a  counter- 
attack at  night. 

It  came  with  the  dramatic  suddenness,  the 
striking  spectacular  display,  of  a  motion-picture 
battle.  The  pictorial  effect  seemed  extrava- 
gantly overdrawn. 

There  was  a  sudden  hurricane  of  rifle  and 
machine-gun  fire,  and  in  an  instant  all  the 
desolate  landscape  was  revealed  under  the 
light  of  innumerable  trench  rockets.  We  saw 
the  enemy  advancing  in  irregular  lines  to  the 
attack.  They  were  exposed  to  a  pitiless  in- 
fantry fire.  I  could  follow  the  curve  of  our 
trenches  on  the  left  by  the  almost  solid  sheet 
of  flame  issuing  from  the  rifles  of  our  comrades 
against  whom  the  assault  was  launched.  The 
artillery  ranged  upon  the  advancing  lines  at 

158 


New  Lodgings 

once,  and  the  air  was  filled  with  the  roar  of 
bursting  shells  and  the  melancholy  zvhing-g-g-g 
of  flying  shrapnel. 

I  did  not  believe  that  any  one  could  cross 
that  fire-swept  area  alive,  but  before  many 
moments  we  heard  the  staccato  of  bursting 
bombs  and  hand  grenades  which  meant  that 
some  of  the  enemy,  at  least,  were  within  strik- 
ing distance.  There  was  a  sharp  crescendo  of 
deafening  sound,  then,  gradually,  the  firing 
ceased,  and  word  came  down  the  line,  "Count- 
er-attack against  the Guards;  and  jolly 

well  beaten  oif  too."  Another  was  attempted 
before  daybreak,  and  again  the  same  torrent 
of  lead,  the  same  hideous  uproar,  the  same  sick- 
ening smell  of  lyddite,  the  same  ghastly  noon- 
day effect,  the  same  gradual  silence,  and  the 
same  result. 

II.    DAMAGED   TRENCHES 

The  brief  respite  which  we  enjoyed  during 
our  first  night  soon  came  to  an  end.  We  were 
given  time,  however,  to  make  our  trenches 
tenable.  Early  the  following  morning  we  set 
to  work   removing   the  wreckage  of  human 

159 


Kitchener's  Mob 

bodies.  Never  before  had  death  revealed  itself 
so  terribly  to  us.  Many  of  the  men  had  been 
literally  blown  to  pieces,  and  it  was  necessary 
to  gather  the  fragments  in  blankets.  For  weeks 
afterward  we  had  to  eat  and  sleep  and  work  and 
think  among  such  awful  sights.  We  became 
hardened  to  them  finally.  It  was  absolutely 
essential  that  we  should. 

The  trenches  and  dugouts  had  been  battered 
to  pieces  by  the  British  artillery  fire  before  the 
infantry  assault,  and  since  their  capture  the 
work  of  destruction  had  been  carried  on  by 
the  German  gunners.  Even  in  their  wrecked 
condition  we  could  see  how  skillfully  they  had 
been  constructed.  No  labor  had  been  spared  in 
making  them  as  nearly  shell-proof  and  as  com- 
fortable for  living  quarters  as  it  is  possible  for 
such  earthworks  to  be.  The  ground  here  was 
unusually  favorable.  Under  a  clayish  surface 
soil,  there  was  a  stratum  of  solid  chalk.  Advan- 
tage of  this  had  been  taken  by  the  German  en- 
gineers who  must  have  planned  and  supervised 
the  work.  Many  of  the  shell-proof  dugouts 
were  fifteen  and  even  twenty  feet  below  the 
surface  of  the  ground.    Entrance  to  these  was 

1 60 


New  Lodgings 


made  in  the  front  wall  of  the  trench  on  a  level 
with  the  floor.  Stairways  just  large  enough  to 
permit  the  passage  of  a  man's  body  led  down 
to  them.  The  roofs  were  reinforced  with  heavy 
timbers.  They  were  so  strongly  built  through- 
out that  most  of  them  were  Intact,  although 
the  passageways  leading  up  to  the  trench  were 
choked  with  loose  earth. 

There  were  larger  surface  dugouts  with  floors 
but  slightly  lower  than  that  of  the  trench. 
These  were  evidently  built  for  living  quarters 
in  times  of  comparative  quiet.  Many  of  them 
were  six  feet  wide  and  from  twenty  to  thirty 
feet  long,  and  quite  palaces  compared  to  the 
wretched  little  "funk-holes"  to  which  we  had 
been  accustomed.  They  were  roofed  with  logs 
a  foot  or  more  in  diameter  placed  close  together 
and  one  on  top  of  the  other  in  tiers  of  three, 
with  a  covering  of  earth  three  or  four  feet  thick. 
But  although  they  were  solidly  built  they  had 
not  been  proof  against  the  rain  of  high  explo- 
sives. Many  of  them  were  in  ruins,  the  logs 
splintered  like  kindling  wood  and  strewn  far 
and  wide  over  the  ground. 

We  found  several  dugouts,  evidently  ofii- 

i6i 


Kitchener's  Mob 

cers'  quarters,  which  were  almost  luxuriously 
furnished.  There  were  rugs  for  the  wooden 
floors  and  pictures  and  mirrors  for  the  walls; 
and  in  each  of  them  there  was  the  jolliest  little 
stove  with  a  removable  lid.  We  discovered  one 
of  these  underground  palaces  at  the  end  of  a 
blind  alley  leading  off  from  the  main  trench.  It 
was  at  least  fifteen  feet  underground,  with  two 
stairways  leading  down  to  it,  so  that  if  escape 
was  cut  off  in  one  direction,  it  was  still  possible 
to  get  out  on  the  other  side.  We  immediately 
took  possession,  built  a  roaring  fire,  and  were 
soon  passing  canteens  of  hot  tea  around  the 
circle.  Life  was  worth  while  again.  We  all 
agreed  that  there  were  less  comfortable  places 
in  which  to  have  breakfast  on  rainy  autumn 
mornings  than  German  officers'  dug-outs. 

The  haste  with  which  the  Germans  aban- 
doned their  trenches  was  evidenced  by  the 
amount  of  war  material  which  they  left  behind. 
We  found  two  machine  guns  and  a  great  deal 
of  small-arms  ammunition  in  our  own  limited 
sector  of  frontage.  Rifles,  intrenching  tools, 
haversacks,  canteens,  greatcoats,  bayonets  were 
scattered  everywhere.   All  of  this  material  was 

162 


New  Lodgings 

of  the  very  best.  Canteens,  water-bottles,  and 
small  frying-pans  were  made  of  aluminum  and 
most  ingeniously  fashioned  to  make  them  less 
bulky  for  carrying.  Some  of  the  bayonets  were 
saw-edged.  We  found  three  of  these  needlessly 
cruel  weapons  in  a  dugout  which  bore  the  fol- 
lowing inscription  over  the  door :  — 

"Gott  tret'  herein.  Bring^  gluck  herein" 
It  was  an  interesting  commentary  on  German 
character.  Tommy  Atkins  never  writes  in- 
scriptions of  a  religious  nature  over  the  door- 
way of  his  splinter-roof  shelter.  Neither  does  he 
file  a  saw  edge  on  his  bayonet. 

We  found  many  letters,  picture  post-cards, 
and  newspapers;  among  the  latter,  one  called 
the  "Krieg-Zeitung,"  published  at  Lille  for 
the  soldiers  in  the  field,  and  filled  with  glowing 
accounts  of  battles  fought  by  the  ever  vic- 
torious German  armies. 

Death  comes  swiftly  in  war.  One's  life  hangs 
by  a  thread.  The  most  trivial  circumstance 
saves  or  destroys.  Mac  came  into  the  half- 
ruined  dugout  where  the  off-duty  machine 
gunners  were  making  tea  over  a  fire  of  splin- 
tered logs. 

163 


Kitchener's  Mob 

"Jamie,"  he  said,  "take  my  place  at  sentry 
for  a  few  minutes,  will  you  ?  I  've  lost  my  water- 
bottle.  It's  'ere  in  the  dugout  somew'ere.  I'll 
be  only  a  minute." 

I  went  out  to  the  gun  position  a  few  yards 
away,  and  immediately  afterward  the  Germans 
began  a  bombardment  of  our  line.  One's  ear 
becomes  exact  in  distinguishing  the  size  of 
shells  by  the  sound  which  they  make  in  travel- 
ing through  the  air;  and  it  is  possible  to  judge 
the  direction  and  the  probable  place  of  their 
fall.  Two  of  us  stood  by  the  machine  gun.  We 
heard  at  the  same  time  the  sound  which  we 
knew  meant  danger,  possibly  death.  It  was 
the  awful  whistling  roar  of  a  high  explosive. 
We  dropped  to  the  floor  of  the  trench  at  once. 
The  explosion  blackened  our  faces  with  lyddite 
and  half -blinded  us.  The  dugout  which  I  had 
left  less  than  a  moment  ago  was  a  mass  of 
wreckage.    Seven  of  our  comrades  were  inside. 

One  of  them  crawled  out,  pulling  himself 
along  with  one  arm.  The  other  arm  was  terribly 
crushed  and  one  leg  was  hanging  by  a  tendon 
and  a  few  shreds  of  flesh. 

"My  God,  boys !  Look  wot  they  did  to  me ! " 

164 


New  Lodgings 

He  kept  saying  it  over  and  over  while  we  cut 
the  cords  from  our  bandoliers,  tied  them  about 
his  leg  and  arm  and  twisted  them  up  to  stop  the 
flow  of  blood.  He  was  a  fine,  healthy  lad.  A 
moment  before  he  had  been  telling  us  what  he 
was  going  to  do  when  we  went  home  on  fur- 
lough. Now  his  face  was  the  color  of  ashes,  his 
voice  grew  weaker  and  weaker,  and  he  died 
while  we  were  working  over  him. 

High  explosive  shells  were  bursting  all  along 
the  line.  Great  masses  of  earth  and  chalk  were 
blown  in  on  top  of  men  seeking  protection  where 
there  was  none.  The  ground  rocked  like  so  much 
pasteboard.  I  heard  frantic  cries  for  "Picks  and 
shovels!"  "Stretcher-bearers!  Stretcher-bearers 
this  way,  for  God's  sake!"  The  voices  sounded 
as  weak  and  futile  as  the  squeaking  of  rats  in  a 
thunderstorm. 

When  the  bombardment  began,  all  off-duty 
men  were  ordered  into  the  deepest  of  the  shell- 
proof  dugouts,  where  they  were  really  quite 
safe.  But  those  English  lads  were  not  cowards. 
Orders  or  no  orders,  they  came  out  to  the  rescue 
of  their  comrades.  They  worked  without  a 
thought  of  their  own  danger.    I  felt  actually 

i6s 


Kitchener's  Mob 

happy,  for  I  was  witnessing  splendid  heroic 
things.  It  was  an  experience  which  gave  one  a 
new  and  unshakable  faith  in  his  fellows. 

The  sergeant  and  I  rushed  into  the  ruins  of 
our  machine-gun  dugout.  The  roof  still  held  in 
one  place.  There  we  found  Mac,  his  head  split 
in  two  as  though  it  had  been  done  with  an 
axe.  Gardner's  head  was  blown  completely 
off,  and  his  body  was  so  terribly  mangled  that 
we  did  not  know  until  later  who  he  was.  Pres- 
ton was  lying  on  his  back  with  a  great  jagged, 
blood-stained  hole  through  his  tunic.  Bert 
Powel  was  so  badly  hurt  that  we  exhausted  our 
supply  of  field  dressings  in  bandaging  him.  We 
found  little  Charlie  Harrison  lying  close  to  the 
side  of  the  wall,  gazing  at  his  crushed  foot  with 
a  look  of  incredulity  and  horror  pitiful  to  see. 
One  of  the  men  gave  him  first  aid  with  all  the 
deftness  and  tenderness  of  a  woman. 

The  rest  of  us  dug  hurriedly  into  a  great 
heap  of  earth  at  the  other  end  of  the  shelter. 
We  quickly  uncovered  Walter,  a  lad  who  had 
kept  us  laughing  at  his  drollery  on  many  a 
rainy  night.  The  earth  had  been  heaped  loosely 
on  him  and  he  was  still  conscious. 

1 66 


New  Lodgings 


"Good  old  boys,"  he  said  weakly;  "I  was 
about  done  for." 

In  our  haste  we  dislodged  another  heap  of 
earth  which  completely  burled  him  again,  and 
It  seemed  a  lifetime  before  we  were  able  to 
remove  It.  I  have  never  seen  a  finer  display  of 
pure  grit  than  Walter's. 

"Easy  now!"  he  said.  "Can't  feel  anything 
below  me  waist.   I  think  I'm  'urt  down  there." 

We  worked  as  swiftly  and  as  carefully  as  we 
could.  We  knew  that  he  was  badly  wounded, 
for  the  earth  was  soaked  with  blood;  but  when 
we  saw,  we  turned  away  sick  with  horror. 
Fortunately,  he  lost  consciousness  while  we 
were  trying  to  disentangle  him  from  the  fallen 
timbers,  and  he  died  on  the  way  to  the  field 
dressing-station.  Of  the  seven  lads  In  the  dug- 
out, three  were  killed  outright,  three  died 
within  half  an  hour,  and  one  escaped  with  a 
crushed  foot  which  had  to  be  amputated  at  the 
field  hospital. 

What  had  happened  to  our  little  group  was 
happening  to  others  along  the  entire  line. 
Americans  may  have  read  of  the  bombardment 
which  took  place  that  autumn  morning.    The 

167 


Kitchener's  Mob 

dispatches,  I  believe,  described  it  with  the 
usual  official  brevity,  giving  all  the  information 
really  necessary  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
general  public. 

"Along  the  Loos -La  Bassee  sector  there 
was  a  lively  artillery  action.  We  demolished 
some  earthworks  in  the  vicinity  of  Hulluch. 
Some  of  our  trenches  near  Hill  70  were  dam- 
aged." 

"Damaged!"  It  was  a  guarded  admission. 
Our  line  was  a  shambles  of  loose  earth  and 
splintered  logs.  At  some  places  it  was  difficult 
to  see  just  where  the  trench  had  been.  Had  the 
Germans  launched  a  counter-attack  immedi- 
ately after  the  bombardment,  we  should  have 
had  difficulty  in  holding  the  position.  But  it 
was  only  what  Tommy  called  "a  big  'ap'orth 
o'  'ate."  No  attempt  was  made  to  follow  up 
the  advantage,  and  we  at  once  set  to  work  re- 
building. The  loose  earth  had  to  be  put  into 
sandbags,  the  parapets  mended,  the  holes, 
blasted  out  by  shells,  filled  in. 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  we  could  not  get 
away  from  the  sight  of  the  mangled  bodies  of 
our  comrades.   Arms  and  legs  stuck  out  of  the 

168 


New  Lodgings 

wreckage,  and  on  every  side  we  saw  distorted 
human  faces,  the  faces  of  men  we  had  known, 
with  whom  we  had  hved  and  shared  hardships 
and  dangers  for  months  past.  Those  who  have 
never  lived  through  experiences  of  this  sort 
cannot  possibly  know  the  horror  of  them.  It 
is  not  in  the  heat  of  battle  that  men  lose  their 
reason.  Battle  frenzy  is,  perhaps,  a  temporary 
madness.  The  real  danger  comes  when  the 
strain  is  relaxed.  Men  look  about  them  and 
see  the  bodies  of  their  comrades  torn  to  pieces 
as  though  they  had  been  hacked  and  butchered 
by  fiends.  One  thinks  of  the  human  body  as 
inviolate,  a  beautiful  and  sacred  thing.  The 
sight  of  it  dismembered  or  disemboweled, 
trampled  in  the  bottom  of  a  trench,  smeared 
with  blood  and  filth,  is  so  revolting  as  to  be 
hardly  endurable. 

And  yet,  we  had  to  endure  it.  We  could  not 
escape  it.  Whichever  way  we  looked,  there  were 
the  dead.  Worse  even  than  the  sight  of  dead 
men  were  the  groans  and  entreaties  of  those 
lying  wounded  in  the  trenches  waiting  to  be 
taken  back  to  the  dressing-stations. 

"I'm   shot  through   the   stomach,   matey! 

169 


Kitchener's  Mob 

Can't  you  get  me  back  to  the  ambulance? 
Ain't  they  some  way  you  can  get  me  back  out 
o'this?" 

"Stick  it,  old  lad!  You  won't  'ave  long  to 
wite.  They'll  be  some  of  the  Red  Cross  along 
'ere  in  a  jiffy  now." 

"Give  me  a  lift,  boys,  can't  you?  Look  at 
my  leg!  Do  you  think  it'll  'ave  to  come  off? 
Maybe  they  could  save  it  if  I  could  get  to  'os- 
pital  in  time!  Won't  some  of  you  give  me  a 
lift?   I  can  'obble  along  with  a  little  'elp." 

"Don't  you  fret,  sonny!  You're  a-go'n'  to 
ride  back  in  a  stretcher  presently.  Keep  yer 
courage  up  a  little  w'ile  longer." 

Some  of  the  men,  in  their  suffering,  forgot 
every  one  but  themselves,  and  it  was  not  strange 
that  they  should.  Others,  with  more  iron  in 
their  natures,  endured  fearful  agony  in  silence. 
During  memorable  half-hours,  filled  with  dan- 
ger and  death,  many  of  my  gross  misjudgments 
of  character  were  made  clear  to  me.  Men  whom 
no  one  had  credited  with  heroic  qualities  re- 
vealed them.  Others  failed  rather  pitiably  to 
live  up  to  one's  expectations.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  there  was  strength  or  weakness  in  men, 

170 


New  Lodgings 

quite  apart  from  their  real  selves,  for  which 
they  were  in  no  way  responsible;  but  doubtless 
it  had  always  been  there,  waiting  to  be  called 
forth  at  just  such  crucial  times. 

During  the  afternoon  I  heard  for  the  first 
time  the  hysterical  cry  of  a  man  whose  nerve 
had  given  way.  He  picked  up  an  arm  and 
threw  it  far  out  in  front  of  the  trenches,  shout- 
ing as  he  did  so  in  a  way  that  made  one's  blood 
run  cold.  Then  he  sat  down  and  started  crying 
and  moaning.  He  was  taken  back  to  the  rear, 
one  of  the  saddest  of  casualties  in  a  war  of  in- 
conceivable horrors.  I  heard  of  many  instances 
of  nervous  breakdown,  but  I  witnessed  sur- 
prisingly few  of  them.  Men  were  often  badly 
shaken  and  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  Usu- 
ally they  pulled  themselves  together  under  the 
taunts  of  their  less  susceptible  comrades. 

III.    RISSOLES   AND   A   REQUIEM 

At  the  close  of  a  gloomy  October  day,  six 
unshaven,  mud-encrusted  machine  gunners, 
the  surviving .  members  of  two  teams,  were 
gathered  at  the  C  Company  gun  emplacement. 
D  Company's  gun  had  been   destroyed  by  a 

171 


Kitchener's  Mob 

shell,  and  so  we  had  joined  forces  here  in  front 
of  the  wrecked  dugout,  and  were  waiting  for 
night  when  we  could  bury  our  dead  comrades. 
A  fine  drenching  rain  was  falling.  We  sat  with 
our  waterproof  sheets  thrown  over  our  shoul- 
ders and  our  knees  drawn  up  to  our  chins,  that 
we  might  conserve  the  damp  warmth  of  our 
bodies.  No  one  spoke.  No  reference  was  made 
to  our  dead  comrades  who  were  lying  there  so 
close  that  we  could  almost  touch  them  from 
where  we  sat.  Nevertheless,  I  believe  that  we 
were  all  thinking  of  them,  however  unwillingly. 
I  tried  to  see  them  as  they  were  only  a  few 
hours  before.  I  tried  to  remember  the  sound  of 
their  voices,  how  they  had  laughed;  but  I  could 
think  only  of  the  appearance  of  their  mutilated 
bodies. 

On  a  dreary  autumn  evening  one's  thoughts 
often  take  a  melancholy  turn,  even  though  one 
is  indoors,  sitting  before  a  pleasant  fire,  and 
hearing  but  faintly  the  sighing  of  the  wind  and 
the  sound  of  the  rain  beating  against  the  win- 
dow. It  is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at  that  sol- 
diers in  trenches  become  discouraged  at  times, 
and  on  this  occasion,  when  an  unquenchably 

172 


New  Lodgings 

cheerful  voice  shouted  over  an  adjoining  tra- 
verse, — 

"Wot  che'r,  lads!  Are  we  downhearted?"  — • 
a  growling  chorus  answered  with  an  unmis- 
takable, — ■ 

"YES!" 

We  were  in  an  open  ditch.  The  rain  was 
beating  down  on  our  faces.  We  were  waiting 
for  darkness  when  we  could  go  to  our  unpleas- 
ant work  of  grave-digging.  To-morrow  there 
would  be  more  dead  bodies  and  more  graves  to 
dig,  and  the  day  after,  the  same  duty,  and  the 
day  after  that,  the  same.  Week  after  week  we 
should  be  living  like  this,  killing  and  being 
killed,  binding  up  terrible  wounds,  digging 
graves,  always  doing  the  same  work  with  not 
one  bright  or  pleasant  thing  to  look  forward  to. 

These  were  my  thoughts  as  I  sat  on  the  fir- 
ing-bench with  my  head  drawn  down  between 
my  knees  watching  the  water  dripping  from 
the  edges  of  my  puttees.  But  I  had  forgotten 
one  important  item  in  the  daily  routine :  supper. 
And  I  had  forgotten  Private  Lemley,  our 
cook,  or,  to  give  him  his  due,  our  chef.  He  was 
not  the  man  to  waste  his  time  in  gloomy  re- 

173 


Kitchener's  Mob 

flection.  With  a  dozen  mouldy  potatoes  which 
he  had  procured  Heaven  knows  where,  four 
tins  of  corned  beef,  and  a  canteen  lid  filled  with 
bacon  grease  for  raw  materials,  he  had  set  to 
work  with  the  enthusiasm  of  the  born  artist, 
the  result  being  rissoles,  brown,  crisp,  and 
piping  hot.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  think  of  that 
meal.  Private  Lemley  was  one  of  the  rare 
souls  of  earth,  one  of  the  Mark  Tapleys  who 
never  lost  his  courage  or  his  good  spirits.  I 
remember  how  our  spirits  rose  at  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  and  how  gladly  and  quickly  we  re- 
sponded to  his  summons. 

"'Ere  you  are,  me  lads!  Bully  beef  rissoles 
an'  'ot  tea,  an'  it  ain't  'arf  bad  fer  the  trenches 
if  I  do  s'y  it." 

I  can  only  wonder  now  at  the  keenness  of 
our  appetites  in  the  midst  of  the  most  grue- 
some surroundings.  Dead  men  were  lying  about 
us,  both  In  the  trenches  and  outside  of  them. 
And  yet  our  rissoles  were  not  a  whit  the  less 
enjoyable  on  that  account. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  we  had  finished.  The 
sergeant  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"Let's  get  at  it,  boys,"  he  said. 

174 


New  Lodgings 

Half  an  hour  later  we  erected  a  wooden 
cross  in  Tommy's  grave-strewn  garden.  It 
bore  the  following  inscription  written  in  pencil : 

Pte.  #  4326  MacDonald. 
Pte.  #  7864  Gardner. 
Pte.  #9851  Preston. 
Pte.  #  6940  Allen. 
Royal  Fusiliers. 
"They  did  their  bit." 

Quietly  we  slipped  back  into  the  trench  and 
piled  our  picks  and  shovels  on  the  parados. 

"Got  yer  mouth-organ  'andy,  Nobby  ? "  some 
one  asked. 

"She's  always  'andy.  Wot  '11  you  'ave, 
lads?" 

"Give  us  'Silk  'At  Nat  Tony.'  That's  a 
proper  funeral  'ymn." 

"Right  you  are!  Sing  up,  now!" 

And  then  we  sang  Tommy's  favorite  kind 
of  requiem :  — 

"I'm  Silk  Hat  Nat  Tony, 
I'm  down  and  I'm  stony: 
I  'm  not  only  broke,  but  I  'm  bent. 
The  fringe  of  my  trousers 
Keeps  lashing  the  houses, 
But  still  I  am  gay  and  content. 

175 


Kitchener's  Mob 

I  stroll  the  West  gayly, 

You'll  see  me  there  daily, 

From  Burlington  Arcade 

Up  to  the  Old  Bailey. 

I'm  stony!  I'm  Tony! 

But  that  makes  no  diff'rence,  you  see. 

Though  I  have  n't  a  fraction, 

I've  this  satisfaction, 

They  built  Piccadilly  for  mc." 


CHAPTER  XI 


"sitting  tight" 


I.    LEMONS  AND   CRICKET  BALLS 

Throughout  October  we  fulfilled  the  pro- 
phecy of  the  officer  who  told  us  that  "sitting 
tight"  in  the  German  trenches  was  to  be  our 
function.  There  were  nightly  counter-attacks 
preceded  by  heavy  artillery  fire,  when  the 
enemy  made  determined  efforts  to  retake  the 
lost  territory.  There  were  needless  alarms  when 
nervous  sentries  "got  the  wind  up,"  to  use  the 
authentic  trench  expression,  and  contagious 
excitement  set  men  to  firing  like  mad  into  blank 
darkness.  In  the  daytime  there  were  moments 
of  calm  which  we  could  not  savor  owing  to  that 
other  warfare  waged  upon  us  by  increasing 
hordes  of  parasitic  enemies.  We  moved  from 
one  position  to  another  through  trenches  where 
the  tangled  mass  of  telephone  wires,  seemingly 
gifted  with  a  kind  of  malignant  humor,  coiled 
themselves  about  our  feet  or  caught  in  the  pil- 
ing swivels  of  our  rifles.  There  were  orders 

177 


Kitchener's  Mob 

and  counter-orders,  alarums  and  excursions. 
Through  them  all  Tommy  kept  his  balance  and 
his  air  of  cheery  unconcern,  but  he  wished  that 
he  might  be  "struck  pink"  if  he  knew  "wot  we 
was  a-doin'  of  anyw'y." 

Our  ideas  of  the  tactical  situation  were  de- 
cidedly vague.  However,  we  did  know,  in  a 
general  way,  our  position  with  reference  to  im- 
portant military  landmarks,  and  the  amateur 
strategists  were  busy  at  all  times  explaining  the 
situation  to  frankly  ignorant  comrades,  and 
outlining  plans  for  definite  action. 

"Now,  if  I  was  General  French,  I'd  make 
'Ulluch  me  main  objective.  They  ain't  no 
use  tryin'  to  get  by  at  this  part  o'  the  line  till 
you  got  that  village." 

"Don't  talk  so  bloomin'  ignorant!  Ain't  that 
just  wot  they  been  a-tryin' .?  Wot  we  got  to  do 
is  go  'round  'Ulluch.  Tyke  'em  in  the  rear  an' 
from  both  sides." 

"W'y  don't  they  get  on  with  it?  Wot  to 
blazes  are  we  a-doin'  of,  givin'  'em  a  chanct 
to  get  dug  in  again.?  'Ere  we  all  but  got  'em 
on  the  run  an'  the  'ole  show  stops!" 

The  continuation  of  the  offensive  was  the 

178 


"Sitting  Tight" 

chief  topic  of  conversation.  The  men  dreaded 
it,  but  they  were  anxious  to  get  through  with 
the  business.  They  believed  that  now  if  ever 
there  was  the  chance  to  push  the  Germans  out 
of  France. 

In  the  mean  time  the  day's  work  was  still 
the  day's  work.  There  were  nightly  bombing 
affairs,  some  of  them  most  desperate  hand-to- 
hand  contests  for  the  possession  of  small  sec- 
tors of  trench.  One  of  these  I  witnessed  from 
a  trench  sixty  yards  away.  The  advantage  lay 
with  us.  The  enemy  held  only  the  center  of  the 
line  and  were  forced  to  meet  attacks  from  either 
end.  However,  they  had  a  communication 
trench  connecting  with  their  second  line, 
through  which  carrying  parties  brought  them 
a  limitless  supply  of  bombs. 

The  game  of  pitch  and  toss  over  the  barri- 
cades had  continued  for  several  days  without 
a  decision.  Then  came  orders  for  more  decisive 
action.  The  barricades  were  to  be  destroyed  and 
the  enemy  bombed  out.  In  underground  fight- 
ing of  this  kind  the  element  of  surprise  is  possi- 
ble. If  one  opponent  can  be  suddenly  over- 
whelmed with  a  heavy  rain  of  bombs,  the 

179 


Kitchener's  Mob 

chances  of  success  for  the  attacking  party  are 
quite  favorable. 

The  action  took  place  at  dusk.  Shortly  be- 
fore the  hour  set,  the  bombers,  all  of  them  boys 
in  their  early  twenties,  filed  slowly  along  the 
trench,  the  pockets  of  their  grenade  waistcoats 
bulging  with  "lemons"  and  "cricket  balls," 
as  the  two  most  effective  kinds  of  bombs  are 
called.  They  went  to  their  places  with  that 
spirit  of  stolid  cheeriness  which  is  the  won- 
der and  admiration  of  every  one  who  knows 
Tommy  Atkins  intimately.  Formerly,  when  I 
saw  him  in  this  mood,  I  would  think,  "He  does 
n't  realize.  Men  don't  go  out  to  meet  death  like 
this."  But  long  association  with  him  had  con- 
vinced me  of  the  error  of  this  opinion.  These 
men  knew  that  death  or  terrible  injury  was  in 
store  for  many  of  them;  yet  they  were  talking 
in  excited  and  gleeful  undertones,  as  they  might 
have  passed  through  the  gates  at  a  football 
match. 
J,   "Are  we  downhearted.?  Not  likely,  old  son!" 

"Tyke  a  feel  o'  this  little  puffball !  Smack  on 
old  Fritzie's  napper  she  goes!" 

"I'm  a-go'n'  to  arsk  fer  a  nice  Blightey  one! 

1 80 


"Sitting  Tight" 

Four  months  in  Brentford  'ospital  an'  me 
Christmas  puddin'  at  'ome!" 

"Now,  don't  ferget,  you  blokes!  County  o' 
London  War  'Ospital  fer  me  if  I  gets  a  knock  1 
Write  it  on  a  piece  o'  pyper  an'  pin  it  to  me 
tunic  w'en  you  sends  me  back  to  the  am- 
bulance." 

The  barricades  were  blown  up  and  the  fight 
was  on.  A  two-hundred-piece  orchestra  of 
blacksmiths,  with  sledgehammers,  beating  ket- 
tle-drums the  size  of  brewery  vats,  might  have 
approximated,  in  quality  and  volume,  the  sound 
of  the  battle.  The  spectacular  effect  was  quite 
different  from  that  of  a  counter-attack  across 
the  open.  Lurid  flashes  of  light  issued  from  the 
ground  as  though  a  door  to  the  infernal  regions 
had  been  thrown  jarringly  open.  The  cloud  of 
thick  smoke  was  shot  through  with  red  gleams. 
Men  ran  along  the  parapet  hurling  bombs  down 
into  the  trench.  Now  they  were  hidden  by  the 
smoke,  now  silhouetted  for  an  instant  against 
a  glare  of  blinding  light. 

An  hour  passed  and  there  was  no  change  in 
the  situation. 

"Fritzie  's  a  tough  old  bird,"  said  Tommy. 

i8i 


Kitchener's  Mob 

"'E's  a-go'n'  to  die  game,  you  got  to  give  it 
to  'im." 

The  excitement  was  intense.  Urgent  calls 
for  "More  lemons!  More  cricket  balls!"  were 
sent  back  constantly.  Box  after  box,  each  con- 
taining a  dozen  grenades,  was  passed  up  the 
line  from  hand  to  hand,  and  still  the  call  for 
"More  bombs!"  We  couldn't  send  them  up 
fast  enough. 

The  wounded  were  coming  back  in  twos  and 
threes.  One  lad,  his  eyes  covered  with  a  bloody 
bandage,  was  led  by  another  with  a  shattered 
hand. 

"Poor  old  Tich!  She  went  off  right  in  'is 
face!  But  you  did  yer  bit,  Tich!  You  ought 
to  'a'  seen  'im,  you  blokes !  Was  n't  'e  a-lettin' 
'em  'ave  it!" 

Another  man  hobbled  past  on  one  foot,  sup- 
porting himself  against  the  side  of  the  trench. 

"Got  a  Blightey  one,"  he  said  gleefully. 
"  Solong,  you  lads !  I  '11  be  with  you  again  arter 
the  'olidays." 

Those  who  do  not  know  the  horrors  of  mod- 
ern warfare  cannot  readily  understand  the 
joy  of  the  soldier  at  receiving  a  wound  which 

182 


"Sitting  Tight" 

is  not  likely  to  prove  serious.  A  bullet  in  the 
arm  or  the  shoulder,  even  though  it  shatters 
the  bone,  or  a  piece  of  shrapnel  or  shell  casing 
in  the  leg,  was  always  a  matter  for  congratula- 
tion. These  were  "Blightey  wounds."  When 
Tommy  received  one  of  this  kind,  he  was  a  can- 
didate for  hospital  in  "Blightey,"  as  England 
is  affectionately  called.  For  several  months 
he  would  be  far  away  from  the  awful  turmoil. 
His  body  would  be  clean;  he  would  be  rid  of  the 
vermin  and  sleep  comfortably  in  a  bed  at  night. 
The  strain  would  be  relaxed,  and,  who  knows, 
the  war  might  be  over  before  he  was  again  fit 
for  active  service.  And  so  the  less  seriously 
wounded  made  their  way  painfully  but  cheer- 
fully along  the  trench,  on  their  way  to  the  field 
dressing-station,  the  motor  ambulance,  the 
hospital  ship,  and  —  home!  while  their  un- 
wounded  comrades  gave  them  words  of  en- 
couragement and  good  cheer. 

"Good  luck  to  you,  Sammy  boy!  If  you 
sees  my  missus,  tell  'er  I'm  as  right  as  rain!" 

"Sammy,  you  lucky  blighter!  Wen  yer 
convalescin',  'ave  a  pint  of  ale  at  the  W'ite 
Lion  fer  me." 

183 


Kitchener's  Mob 

"An'  a  good  feed  o'  fish  an'  chips  fer  me, 
Sammy.  Mind  yer  foot!  There's  a  'ole  just 
'ere!" 

"'Ere  comes  old  Sid!  Were  you  caught  It, 
mate?" 

"  In  me  bloomin'  shoulder.  It  ain't  'arf  givin' 
it  to  me!" 

"Never  you  mind,  Sid!  Blightey  fer  you, 
boy!" 

"HI,  Sid!  Tell  me  old  lady  I'm  still  up  an' 
comin',  will  you.^'  You  know  w'ere  she  lives, 
forty-six  Bromley  Road." 

One  lad,  his  nerve  gone,  pushed  his  way 
frantically  down  the  trench.  He  had  "funked 
it."  He  was  hysterical  with  fright  and  crying 
in  a  dry,  shaking  voice,  — 

"It's  too  'orrible!  I  can't  stand  it!  Blow 
you  to  'ell  they  do!  Look  at  me!  I'm  slathered 
in  blood!  I  can't  stand  it!  They  ain't  no  man 
can  stand  it!" 

He  met  with  scant  courtesy.  A  trench 
during  an  attack  is  no  place'  for  the  faint- 
hearted. An  unsympathetic  Tommy  kicked 
him  savagely. 

"Go  'ide  yerself,  you  bloody  little  coward!" 

184 


"  Sitting  Tight " 


"More  lemons!  More  cricket  balls!"  and  at 
last,  Victory!  Fritzie  had  "chucked  it,"  and 
men  of  the  Royal  Engineers,  that  wonderfully 
efficient  corps,  were  on  the  spot  with  picks 
and  shovels  and  sandbags,  clearing  out  the 
wreckage,  and  building  a  new  barricade  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  communication  trench. 

It  was  only  a  minor  affair,  one  of  many  which 
take  place  nightly  in  the  firing-line.  Twoscore 
yards  of  trench  were  captured.  The  cost  was, 
perhaps,  one  man  per  yard;  but  as  Tommy 
said,  — 

"It  ain't  the  trench  wot  counts.  It's  the 
more-ale.  Bucks  the  blokes  up  to  win,  an'  that's 
worth  a  'ole  bloomin'  army  corps.' 


J5 


II.    "  GO  IT,  THE  NORFOLKS!" 

Rumors  of  all  degrees  of  absurdity  reached 
us.  The  enemy  was  massing  on  our  right,  on 
our  left,  on  our  immediate  front.  The  division 
was  to  attack  at  dawn  under  cover  of  a  hundred 
bomb-dropping  battle-planes.  Units  of  the  new 
armies  to  the  number  of  five  hundred  thousand 
were  concentrating  behind  the  line  from  La 
Bassee  to  Arras,  and  another  tremendous  drive 

185 


Kitchener's  Mob 

was  to  be  made  in  conjunction  with  the  French, 
(As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  knew  less  of  what  was 
actually  happening  than  did  people  in  England 
and  America.)  Most  of  these  reports  sprang, 
full  grown,  from  the  fertile  brains  of  officers' 
servants.  Scraps  of  information  which  they 
gathered  while  in  attendance  at  the  officers' 
mess  dugout  were  pieced  together,  and  much 
new  material  of  their  own  invention  added.  The 
striving  was  for  piquancy  rather  than  plausi- 
bility. A  wild  tale  was  always  better  than  a  dull 
one;  furthermore  the  "batmen"  were  our  only 
sources  of  official  information,  and  could  always 
command  a  hearing.  When  one  of  them  came 
down  the  trench  with  that  mysterious  "I-could- 
a-tale-unfold "  air,  he  was  certain  to  be  halted 
by  willingly  gullible  comrades. 

"Wot's  up,  Jerry?  Anything  new?" 
"Nor  'arf!    Now,  keep  this  under  yer  'ats, 
you  blokes !  My  gov'nor  was  a-talkin'  to  Major 
Bradley  this  mornin'  w'ile  I  was  a-mykin'  'is 
tea,  an'  '^  says — " 

Then  followed  the  thrilling  narrative,  a  dis- 
closure of  official  secrets  while  groups  of  war- 
worn Tommies  listened  with  eager  interest. 

1 86 


«  Sitting  Tight " 

"Spreading  the  News"  was  a  tragi-comedy 
enacted  daily  in  the  trenches. 

But  we  were  not  entirely  in  the  dark.  The 
signs  which  preceded  an  engagement  were  un- 
mistakable, and  toward  the  middle  of  October 
there  was  general  agreement  that  an  important 
action  was  about  to  take  place.  British  aircraft 
had  been  patrolling  our  front  ceaselessly  for 
hours.  Several  battalions  (including  our  own 
which  had  just  gone  into  reserve  at  Vermelles) 
were  placed  on  bomb-carrying  fatigue.  As  we 
went  up  to  the  firing-line  with  our  first  load, 
we  found  all  of  the  support  trenches  filled  to 
overflowing  with  troops  in  fighting  order. 

We  reached  the  first  line  as  the  preliminary 
bombardment  started.  Scores  of  batteries  were 
concentrating  their  fire  on  the  enemy's  trenches 
directly  opposite  us.  It  is  useless  to  attempt  to 
depict  what  lay  before  us  as  we  looked  over  the 
parapet.  The  trenches  were  hidden  from  view 
in  a  cloud  of  smoke  and  flame  and  dirt.  The 
earth  was  like  a  muddy  sea  dashed  high  in 
spray  against  hidden  rocks. 

The  men  who  were  to  lead  the  attack  were 
standing  rifle  in  hand,  waiting  for  the  sudden 

187 


Kitchener's  Mob 

cessation  of  fire  which  would  be  the  signal  for 
them  to  mount  the  parapet.  Bombers  and 
bayonet-men  alternated  in  series  of  two.  The 
bombers  wore  their  mediaeval-looking  shrapnel- 
proof  helmets  and  heavy  canvas  grenade  coats 
with  twelve  pockets  sagging  with  bombs.  Their 
rifles  were  slung  on  their  backs  to  give  them  free 
use  of  their  hands. 

Every  one  was  smoking  —  some  calmly,  some 
with  short,  nervous  puffs.  It  was  interesting 
to  watch  the  faces  of  the  men.  One  could  read, 
almost  to  a  certainty,  what  was  going  on  in  their 
minds.  Some  of  them  were  thinking  of  the  ter- 
rible events  so  near  at  hand.  They  were  imagin- 
ing the  horrors  of  the  attack  in  detail.  Others 
were  unconcernedly  intent  upon  adjusting 
straps  of  their  equipment,  or  in  rubbing  their 
clips  of  ammunition  with  an  oily  rag.  Several 
men  were  singing  to  a  mouth-organ  accompani- 
ment. I  saw  their  lips  moving,  but  not  a  sound 
reached  me  above  the  din  of  the  guns,  although 
I  was  standing  only  a  few  yards  distant.  It 
was  like  an  absurd  pantomime. 

As  I  watched  them,  the  sense  of  the  unreality 
of  the  whole  thing  swept  over  me  more  strongly 

i88 


«  Sitting  Tight " 

than  ever  before.  "  This  can't  be  true,"  I  thought; 
"  I  have  never  been  a  soldier.  There  is  n't  any 
European  war."  I  had  the  curious  feehng  that 
my  body  and  brain  were  functioning  quite 
apart  from  me.  I  was  only  a  slow-witted,  in- 
credulous spectator  looking  on  with  a  stupid 
animal  wonder.  I  have  learned  that  this  feel- 
ing is  quite  common  among  men  in  the  trenches. 
A  part  of  the  mind  works  normally,  and  another 
part,  which  seems  to  be  one's  essential  self, 
refuses  to  assimilate  and  classify  experiences  so 
unusual,  so  different  from  anything  in  the  cata- 
logue of  memory. 

For  two  hours  and  a  half  the  roar  of  guns 
continued.  Then  it  stopped  as  suddenly  as  it 
had  begun.  An  officer  near  me  shouted,  "Now, 
men!  Follow  me!"  and  clambered  over  the 
parapet.  There  was  no  hesitation.  In  a  mo- 
ment the  trench  was  empty  save  for  the  bomb- 
carrying  parties  and  an  artillery  observation 
officer,  who  was  jumping  up  and  down  on  the 
firing-bench,  shouting  — 

"Go  it,  the  Norfolks!  Go  it,  the  Nor  folks  I 
My  God!   Is  n't  it  fine!   Is  n't  it  splendid!" 

There  you  have  the  British  officer  true  to 

189 


Kitchener's  Mob 

type.  He  is  a  sportsman :  next  to  taking  part 
in  a  fight  he  loves  to  see  one  —  and  he  says 
"is  n't"  not  "ain't,"  even  under  stress  of  the 
greatest  excitement. 

The  German  artillery,  which  had  been  re- 
serving fire,  now  poured  forth  a  deluge  of 
shrapnel.  The  sound  of  rifle  fire  was  scattered 
and  ragged  at  first,  but  it  increased  steadily 
in  volume.  Then  came  the  "boiler-factory 
chorus,"  the  sharp  rattle  of  dozens  of  machine 
guns.  The  bullets  were  flying  over  our  heads 
like  swarms  of  angry  wasps.  A  ration-box  board 
which  I  held  above  the  parapet  was  struck  al- 
most immediately.  Fortunately  for  the  artil- 
lery officer,  a  disrespectful  N.C.O.  pulled  him 
down  into  the  trench. 

"It's  no  use  throwin'  yer  life  aw'y,  sir.  You 
won't  'elp  'em  over  by  barkin'  at  'em." 

He  was  up  again  almost  at  once,  coolly 
watching  the  progress  of  the  troops  from  behind 
a  small  barricade  of  sandbags,  and  reporting 
upon  it  to  batteries  several  miles  in  rear. 
The  temptation  to  look  over  the  parapet  was 
not  to  be  resisted.  The  artillery  lengthened 
their  ranges.    I  saw  the  curtain  of  flame-shot 

190 


<« Sitting  Tight" 

smoke  leap  at  a  bound  to  the  next  line  of  Ger- 
man trenches. 

Within  a  few  moments  several  lines  of  re- 
serves filed  into  the  front  trench  and  went  over 
the  parapet  in  support  of  the  first  line,  ad- 
vancing with  heads  down  like  men  bucking  into 
the  fury  of  a  gale.  We  saw  them  only  for  an 
instant  as  they  jumped  to  their  feet  outside  the 
trench  and  rushed  forward.  Many  were  hit 
before  they  had  passed  through  the  gaps  in  our 
barbed  wire.  Those  who  were  able  crept  back 
and  were  helped  into  the  trench  by  comrades. 
One  man  was  killed  as  he  was  about  to  reach 
a  place  of  safety.  He  lay  on  the  parapet  with 
his  head  and  arms  hanging  down  inside  the 
trench.  His  face  was  that  of  a  boy  of  twenty- 
one  or  twenty-two.  I  carry  the  memory  of  it 
with  me  to-day  as  vividly  as  when  I  left  the 
trenches  in  November. 

Following  the  attacking  infantry  were  those 
other  soldiers  whose  work,  though  less  spec- 
tacular than  that  of  the  riflemen,  was  just  as 
essential  and  quite  as  dangerous.  Royal  Engi- 
neers, with  picks  and  shovels  and  sandbags, 
rushed  forward  to  reverse  the  parapets  of  the 

191 


Kitchener's  Mob 

captured  trenches,  and  to  clear  out  the  wreck- 
age, while  the  riflemen  waited  for  the  launching 
of  the  first  counter-attack.  They  were  preceded 
by  men  of  the  Signaling  Corps,  who  advanced 
swiftly  and  skillfully,  unwinding  spools  of  in- 
sulated telephone  wire  as  they  went.  Bomb- 
carriers,  stretcher-bearers,  intent  upon  their 
widely  divergent  duties,  followed.  The  work  of 
salvage  and  destruction  went  hand  in  hand. 

The  battle  continued  until  evening,  when 
we  received  orders  to  move  up  to  the  firing-line. 
We  started  at  five  o'clock,  and  although  we 
had  less  than  three  miles  to  go,  we  did  not 
reach  the  end  of  our  journey  until  four  the  next 
morning,  owing  to  the  fatigue  parties  and  the 
long  stream  of  wounded  which  blocked  the  com- 
munication trenches.  For  more  than  an  hour 
we  lay  just  outside  of  the  trench  looking  down 
on  a  seemingly  endless  procession  of  casualties. 
Some  of  the  men  were  crying  like  children,  some 
groaning  pitifully,  some  laughing  despite  their 
wounds.  I  heard  dialects  peculiar  to  every  part 
of  England,  and  fragmentary  accounts  of  hair- 
breadth escapes  and  desperate  fighting. 

"They  was  a  big  Dutchman  comin'  at  me 

192 


<'  Sitting  Tight" 

from  the  other  side.  Lucky  fer  me  that  I  'ad  a 
round  in  me  breach.  He  'd  'a'  got  me  if  it  'ad  n't 
'a'  been  fer  that  ca'tridge.  I  let  'im  'ave  it  an' 
'e  crumpled  up  like  a  wet  blanket." 

"Seeven  of  them,  an'  that  dazed  like,  they 
wasna  good  for  onything.  Mon,  it  would  ha' 
been  fair  murder  to  kill  'em!  They  wasna 
wan  tin'  to  fight." 

Boys  scarcely  out  of  their  'teens  talked  with 
the  air  of  old  veterans.  Many  of  them  had  been 
given  their  first  taste  of  real  fighting,  and  they 
were  experiencing  a  very  common  and  natural 
reaction.  Their  courage  had  been  put  to  the 
most  severe  test  and  had  not  given  way.  It  was 
not  difiicult  to  understand  their  elation,  and  one 
could  forgive  their  boastful  talk  of  bloody  deeds. 
One  highly  strung  lad  was  dangerously  near  to 
nervous  breakdown.  He  had  bayoneted  his 
first  German  and  could  not  forget  the  experi- 
ence. He  told  of  it  over  and  over  as  the  line 
moved  slowly  along. 

"I  could  n't  get  me  bayonet  out,"  he  said. 
"Wen  'e  fell  'e  pulled  me  over  on  top  of  'im. 
I  'ad  to  put  me  foot  against  'im  an'  pull,  an' 
then  it  came  out  with  a  jerk." 

193 


Kitchener's  Mob 

We  met  small  groups  of  prisoners  under  es- 
cort of  proud  and  happy  Tommies  who  gave  us 
conflicting  reports  of  the  success  of  the  attack. 
Some  of  them  said  that  two  more  lines  of  Ger- 
man trenches  had  been  taken;  others  declared 
that  we  had  broken  completely  through  and  that 
the  enemy  were  in  full  retreat.  Upon  arriving 
at  our  position,  we  were  convinced  that  at  least 
one  trench  had  been  captured;  but  when  we 
mounted  our  guns  and  peered  cautiously  over 
the  parapet,  the  lights  which  we  saw  in  the 
distance  were  the  flashes  of  German  rifles,  not 
the  street  lamps  of  Berlin. 

III.    CHRISTIAN    PRACTICE 

Meanwhile,  the  inhumanity  of  a  war  without 
truces  was  being  revealed  to  us  on  every  hand. 
Hundreds  of  bodies  were  lying  between  the 
opposing  lines  of  trenches  and  there  was  no 
chance  to  bury  them.  Fatigue  parties  were 
sent  out  at  night  to  dispose  of  those  which  were 
lying  close  to  the  parapets,  but  the  work  was 
constantly  delayed  and  interrupted  by  persis- 
tent sniping  and  heavy  shell  fire.  Others  farther 
out  lay  where  they  had  fallen  day  after  day  and 

194 


<< Sitting  Tight" 

week  after  week.  Many  an  anxious  mother  in 
England  was  seeking  news  of  a  son  whose  body 
had  become  a  part  of  that  Flemish  landscape. 

During  the  week  following  the  commence- 
ment of  the  offensive,  the  wounded  were 
brought  back  in  twos  and  threes  from  the  con- 
tested area  over  which  attacks  and  counter- 
attacks were  taking  place.  One  plucky  English- 
man was  discovered  about  fifty  yards  in  front 
of  our  trenches.  He  was  waving  a  handkerchief 
tied  to  the  handle  of  his  intrenching  tool. 
Stretcher-bearers  ran  out  under  iire  and  brought 
him  in.  He  had  been  wounded  in  the  foot  when 
his  company  were  advancing  up  the  slope  fifteen 
hundred  yards  away.  When  it  was  found  neces- 
sary to  retire,  he  had  been  left  with  many  dead 
and  wounded  comrades,  far  from  the  possibility 
of  help  by  friends.  He  had  bandaged  his  wound 
with  his  first-aid  field  dressing,  and  started 
crawling  back,  a  few  yards  at  a  time.  He  se- 
cured food  from  the  haversacks  of  dead  com- 
rades, and  at  length,  after  a  week  of  painful 
creeping,,  reached  our  lines. 

Another  of  our  comrades  was  discovered  by 
a  listening  patrol,  six  days  after  he  had  been 

195 


Kitchener's  Mob 

wounded.  He,  too,  had  been  struck  down  close 
to  the  enemy's  second  line.  Two  kind-hearted 
German  sentries,  to  whom  he  had  signaled, 
crept  out  at  night  and  gave  him  hot  coffee  to 
drink.  He  begged  them  to  carry  him  in,  but 
they  told  him  they  were  forbidden  to  take  any 
wounded  prisoners.  As  he  was  unable  to  crawl, 
he  must  have  died  had  it  not  been  for  the  keen 
ears  of  the  men  of  the  listening  patrol.  A  third 
victim  whom  I  saw  was  brought  in  at  daybreak 
by  a  working  party.  He  had  been  shot  in  the 
jaw  and  lay  unattended  through  at  least  five 
wet  October  days  and  nights.  His  eyes  were 
swollen  shut.  Blood-poisoning  had  set  in  from 
a  wound  which  would  certainly  not  have  been 
fatal  could  it  have  received  early  attention. 

We  knew  that  there  must  be  many  wounded 
still  alive  in  the  tall  grass  between  our  lines. 
We  knew  that  many  were  dying  who  might  be 
saved.  The  Red  Cross  Corps  made  nightly 
searches  for  them,  but  the  difficulties  to  be 
overcome  were  great.  The  volume  of  fire  in- 
creased tremendously  at  night.  Furthermore, 
there  was  a  wide  area  to  be  searched,  and  in  the 
darkness  men  lying  unconscious,  or  too  weak 

196 


"Sitting  Tight" 

from  the  loss  of  blood  to  groan  or  shout,  were 
discovered  only  by  accident. 

Tommy  Atkins  is  n't  an  advocate  of  "peace 
at  any  price,"  but  the  sight  of  awful  and  need- 
less suffering  invariably  moved  him  to  declare 
himself  emphatically  against  the  inhuman 
practices  in  war  of  so-called  Christian  nations. 

"Christian  nations!"  he  would  say  scorn- 
fully. "If  this  'ere  is  a  sample  o'  Christianity, 
I'll  tyke  me  charnces  down  below  w'en  I  gets 
knocked  out."  His  comrades  greeted  such 
outbursts  with  hearty  approval. 

"I'm  with  you  there,  mate!  'Ell  won't  be 
such  a  dusty  old  place  if  all  the  Christians  go 
upstairs." 

"They  ain't  no  God  'avin'  anything  to  do 
with  this  war,  I  'm  telling  you !  All  the  religious 
blokes  in  England  an'  France  an'  Germany 
ain't  a-go'n'  to  pray  'Im  into  it!" 

I  am  not  in  a  position  to  speak  for  Hans  and 
Fritz,  who  faced  us  from  the  other  side  of  No- 
Man's-Land;  but  as  for  Tommy,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  he  had  a  higher  opinion  of  the  Deity 
than  many  of  his  better-educated  countrymen 
at  home. 

197 


Kitchener's  Mob 


IV.    TOMMY 

By  the  end  of  the  month  we  had  seen  more  of 
suffering  and  death  than  it  is  good  for  men  to 
see  in  a  Hfetime.  There  were  attacks  and  coun- 
ter-attacks, hand-to-hand  fights  in  communi- 
cation trenches  with  bombs  and  bayonets, 
heavy  bombardments,  nightly  burial  parties. 
Tommy  Atkins  looked  like  a  beast.  His  cloth- 
ing was  a  hardened-mud  casing;  his  body  was 
the  color  of  the  sticky  Flanders  clay  in  which 
he  lived;  but  his  soul  was  clean  and  fine.  I  saw 
him  rescuing  wounded  comrades,  tending  them 
in  the  trenches,  encouraging  them  and  hearten- 
ing them  when  he  himself  was  discouraged  and 
sick  at  heart. 

"You're  a-go'n'  'ome,  'Arry!  Blimy!  think 
o'  that!  Back  to  old  Blightey  w'ile  the  rest 
of  us  'as  got  to  stick  it  out  'ere !  Don't  I  wish 
I  was  you!  Not 'arf!" 

"You  ain't  bad  'urt!  Strike  me  pink!  You'll 
be  as  keen  as  a  w'istle  in  a  couple  o'  months. 
An"ere!  Christmas  in  Blightey,  son !  S'y!  I'll 
tyke  yer  busted  shoulder  if  you'll  give  me  the 
chanct!" 

198 


'< Sitting  Tight" 

"They  ain't  nothin'  they  can't  do  fer  you 
back  at  the  base  'ospital.  'Member  'ow  they 
fixed  old  Ginger  up  ?  You  ain't  caught  it  'arf 
as  bad!" 

In  England,  before  I  knew  him  for  the  man 
he  is,  I  said,  "How  am  I  to  endure  living  with 
him?"  And  now  I  am  thinking,  how  am  I  to 
endure  living  without  him;  without  the  inspira- 
tion of  his  splendid  courage;  without  the  visible 
example  of  his  unselfish  devotion  to  his  fellows  ? 
There  were  a  few  cowards  and  shirkers  who 
failed  to  live  up  to  the  standard  set  by  their 
comrades.  I  remember  the  man  of  thirty-five 
or  forty  who  lay  whimpering  in  the  trench  when 
there  was  unpleasant  work  to  be  done,  while 
boys  half  his  age  kicked  him  in  a  vain  at- 
tempt to  waken  him  to  a  sense  of  duty;  but 
instances  of  this  kind  were  rare.  There  were 
not  enough  of  them  to  serve  as  a  foil  to  the 
shining  deeds  which  were  of  daily  and  hourly 
occurrence. 

Tommy  is  sick  of  the  war  —  dead  sick  of  it. 
He  is  weary  of  the  interminable  procession  of 
comfortless  nights  and  days.  He  is  weary  of 
the  sight  of  maimed  and  bleeding  men  —  of  the 

199 


Kitchener's  Mob 

awful  suspense  of  waiting  for  death.  In  the 
words  of  his  pathetic  Httle  song,  he  does  "want 
to  go  'ome."  But  there  is  that  within  him  which 
says,  "Hold  on!"  He  is  a  compound  of  cheery 
optimism  and  grim  tenacity  which  makes  him 
an  incomparable  fighting  man. 

The  intimate  picture  of  him  which  lingers 
most  willingly  in  my  mind  is  that  which  I  car- 
ried with  me  from  the  trenches  on  the  dreary 
November  evening  shortly  before  I  bade  him 
good-bye.  It  had  been  raining  and  sleeting  for 
a  week.  The  trenches  were  knee-deep  in  water, 
in  some  places  waist-deep,  for  the  ground  was 
as  level  as  a  floor  and  there  was  no  possibility 
of  drainage.  We  were  wet  through  and  our 
legs  were  numb  with  the  cold.  Near  our  gun 
position  there  was  a  hole  in  the  floor  of  the 
trench  where  the  water  had  collected  in  a  deep 
pool.  A  bridge  of  boards  had  been  built  around 
one  side  of  this,  but  in  the  darkness  a  passer-by 
slipped  and  fell  Into  the  icy  water  nearly  up  to 
his  arm-pits. 

"Now,  then,  matey!"  said  an  exasperating 
voice,  "bathin'  in  our  private  pool  without  a 
permit?". 

200 


"Sitting  Tight" 

And  another,  "  'Ere,  son !  This  ain't  a  swim- 
min'  bawth!  That's  our  tea  water  yer  a-stand- 
in'in!" 

The  Tommy  in  the  pool  must  have  been 
nearly  frozen,  but  for  a  moment  he  made  no 
attempt  to  get  out. 

"One  o'  you  fetch  me  a  bit  o'  soap,  will  you  ? " 
he  said  coaxingly.  "You  ain't  a-go'n'  to  talk 
about  tea  water  to  a  bloke  wot  ain't  'ad  a  bawth 
in  seven  weeks?" 

It  is  men  of  this  stamp  who  have  the  for- 
tunes of  England  in  their  keeping.  And  they 
are  called,  "The  Boys  of  the  Bulldog  Breed." 


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